The Sonic Wind: The Beginning of Everything
by Cookirini
Summary: Sonic wind: the wind resistance encountered by pilots when nearing Mach 1.0 also the 'wall of air'. It is also the wind that accompanies the speed of a certain hedgehog. A historicallybased experiment in Sonic fanfiction. Complete.
1. Default Chapter

**_DISCLAIMER_**

****

_Dear Sonic Reader,  
  
What you are about to read is a testimonial of this fan author in regards to what follows.  
  
The following story, or stories, which you are about to read are, to a very large extent and to those who do not believe, a figment of your imagination.   
  
While many of the events, places and people whom exist in this story exist in real life, they have not been consulted in the making of this and their personalities, likenesses and locations may have been slightly fictionalized as a result. Real life events that occur in this story may have also been fictionalized for the sake of plot progression to those who do not believe.   
  
Other characters - and once you, reader, begin, you will understand - other characters' existences are only questionable if you do not believe as well. They can, and may have very well, existed; however, few remember their importance in history in comparison to some of the names mentioned in the following which you are about to read. This may be for good reason; the existence of some characters has only come to light recently through a certain foreign company and may very well be questionable to those who do not believe.  
  
However, to those readers who do believe that the following which I have searched for is, to the best of my knowledge, the most accurate, the most researched, and perhaps to some even the most important story that Sonic fans will ever read, then disregard the proceeding paragraphs and remember:  
  
It is only possible if you believe the impossible can occur. To not watch for the sonic wind as it forever tries to resist the advances of one little blue hedgehog is to block what you know can happen...if you believe._


	2. Introduction

THE SONIC WIND 

  
  
**by Cookirini  
(based on information from Sonic Team)**__

_(This story contains violence, language and mature themes.Read at your own risk)_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.........._

  
  
  
_"My name is Scott Garnet. I'm a captain in the United States Army Air Force. I work at the Rome Air Depot as a pilot and as a commissioned officer. I am 23 years old.  
  
"I'm a little nervous, but I guess all fellas with responsibility have to be a little jittery with something like this. After all, I'm on the threshold of making history, so I guess being a little scared's ok.  
  
"They tell me I'll be famous after this, but I don't care. I'm just doing this to make a difference. That's what all fellas should be doing.   
  
"Still, I can't help but be excited for myself personally. I'll be getting the best sensation, the best ride in the world. I'll be going where no one's gone before.  
  
"I have a feeling nothing'll ever be the same after today…."  
  
  
-Scott Garnet, October 14th, 1947"_  
  
  
  
  



	3. I

I 

  
  
  
  
_October 14th, 1987_  
  
It was the 40th anniversary of the Bell X-1, and Margaret Rye wished she was somewhere else.  
  
"Edwards Air Force Base...." she mumbled. "I hate you, George."  
  
For the past several months, Margaret - or Meg, as she preferred - had been covering the stock market in New York City. There was great speculation that the bull market was going to end, and she had been there for the Wall Street Journal, extensively covering it. After all, she was a part-time financial consultant for Charles Schwab on top of being a reporter, and the story mattered to her.  
  
But her boss - also known as her ex-husband - had radically different plans for her.   
  
With an angry huff, she pulled over to the side of the road and dialed up her car phone. It was an incredibly expensive device - one few people actually had in 1987. It also cost a bit with long-distance. Nevertheless, she felt compelled to call him once more. She tapped her fingers impatiently as the receiver was finally picked up.  
  
"Hello?"  
"George." Her voice was flat and angry. "This map's all wrong."  
"Meg…." The voice became perturbed. "I told you, you junction off of Highway 5 to Route 58, fork to Route 14, and just keep going on 14 until you hit the right fork, then you'll get to the base."  
"This is not my idea of a weekend gig."  
"You're the only one I could spare. And this is an important moment; the guy could keel over any minute now."  
"He's a robust 64 year-old. He doesn't need me to help him."  
"Meg…"  
"Don't 'Meg' me!" She was borderline shouting. "You have an aviation writer whom you could have sent out! Why'd you send me?!"  
"Because he's out!  
"….Then get another one." She slammed the phone down before he could reply. "@#%$."  
  
She shifted the gear into drive and took back to driving on the dirt road. Her mind was whirring angrily with disgust. She was not interested in history; she hated it. To her, the past was past. She could care less which Chuck she was dealing with, especially if it was Chuck Yeager. Having grown up in a military town, he wasn't particularly big on the military, and he was a paragon of the military.   
  
On top of her disgust of the military, she'd had a horrible flight. She was two hours late getting into Loa Angeles, then her luggage was lost. The rent-a-car almost never happened, even though she had sent for it two weeks in advance, and she had to yell out the Hertz office for an hour. Then, she almost got into a crash near Bakersfield, where she junctioned off to Route 58 (and found that she had gone in a wide semi-circle). Then she took another road, and she wasn't sure she was even on Route 14 or not.  
  
But nothing could save her now. So she drove on, nothing happening, nothing to take her away from her assignment….  
  
"....Eh?"  
  
Something in the rearview of Meg's eye caught her attention, leading her mind away from her impending assignment and to the road. In the rearview mirror was smoke. She swerved to look.  
  
It was coming in fast, whatever car was creating the smoke. It was rounding the bend of the desert road with a speed that was very dangerous for any car. The smoke that surrounded it, and was being created by it, looked thick and choking, especially to someone with a drop-top.  
  
"What the....."  
  
Meg checked her speedometer. She was only going 45. The smoky car was going several times faster than that. Something was definitely not right.  
  
She looked back up. The smoke from behind her was becoming much thicker and much closer than she had thought. The driver - whomever it was - was coming fast and furious behind her, and seemed to show no signs of slowing down.  
  
"Damn...."  
  
Meg beeped several times, in hopes that the driver of the car kicking up the smoke would hear and slow down before slamming into her bumper. She could tell, however, that they were going to ignore her and were going to smash right into her.  
  
"Shit.....shit.....!!!"  
  
The smoke was coming up on her, and Meg began to shake nervously. The driver of the car in that smoke was deaf; worse, couldn't hear her because their car was on fire. They were almost on her....if they hit her.....she could only scream the one thing on her mind.  
  
"SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"  
  
As hard and as fast as she could, she swerved to the right, right into a ditch on the side of the road.   
  
A roar that could have almost been an engine came from within the smoke as it sped up even faster as it passed her car on the side of the road. Faster it went, kicking up more smoke and gravel and splattering it all over and into the car, before speeding off into the distance at even greater speeds.  
  
"What........"  
  
Meg could feel her heart pounding fast, her adrenaline pumping. The car....or whatever had been speeding....seemed to have no sign of slowing down to the point where it was willing to run her over. Furthermore, it wasn't on fire from what she could tell; in fact, it had gone faster.  
  
"....Bastard....."  
  
She leaned her head against the steering wheel. That had been a close call, and she needed to calm down. Taking several breaths, she looked up. There was a gas station in front of her; it was a few hundred feet ahead of her. She would ask for directions there.  
  
Slowly, she pulled into the station lot, the heat wall hitting her upon exiting the car. Wiping her brow, she entered the Texaco - _just a bit out of the way_, she thought - and went straight to the counter.  
  
"Excuse me."  
"Hmm?" The teenaged cashier looked like his thumb was up his ass as his eyes slowly spotted Meg. "Yeash?"  
"You know the way to Edwards Air Force Base?"  
"Yeah. 20 miles until you get to a fork. Then its 20 miles after you turn right off this road."  
"….Thanks."  
  
Walking out with a huff (and a pack of Reeses candy), Meg leaned against the side of the door for a moment. She looked disdainfully out at the desert expanse before her; hot, sandy mountainous and dusty it lay for miles around. She started to go for her car.  
  
"Oh....my...!"  
  
Meg turned to see a young woman gasping in delight at a shoddily set up table next to the garage. Sitting at it was a fat, bald old man, smoking a cigarette.  
  
"How do you get all this stuff, Joe?"  
"I wheel it in at flea markets." The old man puffed. "Its not cheap though, lady. So if you want something, pay up."  
  
Something tugged at Meg to look over at the table; it was most likely boredom, and the fact that, other than the teenager and her asshole ex, she had not talked to a single soul for five hours. Shopping through stuff found in flea markets wasn't Meg's specialty, but it was something to take her mind off of her fate.  
  
"Hmm?" The fat man looked up and smiled with rotted teeth when he saw her approach. "Hmm. Nice clothing. San Fran, I presume?"  
"No." Meg said icily. "New York."  
  
And so the dialogue was intended to finish before it had started. Yet the man gave Meg a smirk as she bent to look at the items that he had to offer.  
  
"A bit out of the way, arentcha?"  
"I'm a journalist." Meg's eyes didn't even look at him. "I'm here to report."  
"H'oh, nothing happens here much." The man snorted. "Unless you're here for that Yeager deal. Well, if so you aren't the only one, lady."  
  
Meg could only look disdainfully as what the man had laid on the table. Most of it was bawdy, and not even worth anything - ashtrays, stained clothing, beer steins, even used douches and condoms were scattered everywhere. Meg was about to leave in total disgust at the old man when her eye caught something at the end of the table.  
  
"…..What's that?"  
"What's what?"  
  
Meg didn't wait for him to say anything. Her hands were on the item instantly, and when she picked it up, mothballs fell out of it.  
  
"…_This_."  
"Oh…." The old man's eyes widened, then relaxed. "Oh. That. That's a _jacket_, lady."  
  
Meg's stomach tugged within her for some reason upon first sight of the jacket. It was something she couldn't explain - it was very old and dusty, as if no one had worn it for many, many years, and covered in mothballs. Yet she could not help but suddenly yearn to buy it.  
  
"Oh, WOW! Its a WWII bomber jacket!" Meg saw the woman gasping next to her. "Where did you get _this_ one, Joe?"  
"Oh, this one?" The fat old man laughed. "Oh, flea market a while ago, back in 1984. Got some strange decal on it. The man selling it didn't want in on it, and I sure as hell got tired of it. Its got no squadron regalia on it, and what the hell kind of use would I have for it out _here_?"  
  
Meg slowly turned the jacket over, inspecting it, the strange tugging feeling within her growing. Indeed, what she was holding was a classic Phantom B-3 shear jacket - full leather exterior, full sheep fur interior. Anyone who had ever felt what a real B-3 jacket felt like in their hands never forgot, Meg knew - even with all of the dirt that had accumulated on it.  
  
Turning it to the back. Meg noticed that it was decorated. Most pilots back when World War II ended decorated the back of their jackets with a symbol of what squadron they were in; this one, however, was a first. On the back of it was a strange, large blue decal that could looked like a large, oddly-shaped fireball of some sort. Under it was a single word, also in blue.   
  
Meg stared at the decal for a moment, a flood of sudden nostalgia hitting her. It had seemed impossible, the new feeling that was overtaking her. Yet somehow she _knew_ why the strange decal was on there.   
  
_………………….Sonic……………………._  
  
"I'll take it."  
"Hmm?" The old man seemed surprised. "Take what?"  
"This jacket. I'll take it." Meg felt the stomach tugging feeling again, but her voice stayed firm. "I want it. And if someone else is already buying it, I'll double the amount."  
  
For a moment, the old man's mouth was open, not sure of what to say to the hoity-toity lady in front of him. After a moment, he laughed.  
  
"Sure, lady. Whatever you want. No one else clamoring to buy it anyways." He wiped his eyebrow, chortling. "Two hundred dollars."  
  
Quickly, Meg took the money out from her pocket and handed it to him. She could not understand what was going on - after all, it was just a ratty jacket that a scumbag old man had kept lying in his closet. Yet somehow she wanted it. Desperately _needed_ it.  
  
"There. Have fun!" Meg quickly took the jacket and walked off. "And if your friends ask, tell 'em its from Chuck Yeager! HAHA!"  
  
As quick as her feet could carry her, she scuttled back to her car, slamming the door behind her as she dropped into the driver's seat. She rubbed her eyes and head, a huff coming from her mouth.  
  
"Sometimes," she murmured. "I just don't understand myself sometimes."  
  
Without another word, she put on the jacket, blasted the air conditioner, put up the hood of the car and began to drive onto the road.  
  



	4. II

II 

  
  
  
  
  
_July 13th, 1947_  
  
  
"Here we are....."  
  
One military issue Jeep came up to the gates of the newly-christened Rome Air Depot in Rome, New York, its driver, a young soldier who couldn't have been more than an airman, nodding to the guard. The guard, in return, quickly stood up straight and saluted.  
  
"Sir!"  
"Nice place you got here, colonel." The man on the right, looked around at the new, almost glittering military base. "Damn nice."  
"Thank you, sir." The man to the left, the lt. colonel, nodded. "Your commendation is welcome to me and to all of us here."  
"Well...." The other man looked the lt. colonel in the eye. "I'm not exactly here to praise. I'm here to command."  
"...Yes, sir."  
  
They drove past the barracks, past the hangars that held the various Cessnas, Boeings, Lockheeds and Douglases, past the unfinished training center, and finally onto the gigantic airfield and runway which the new base boasted. Being the home of the newly created Northeastern Air Defense System, which served to fight against Soviet attacks on some of the nation's largest cities, it seemed fitting that the Rome Air Depot was blessed with the Northeast's longest military runway.   
  
On July 13th, 1947, that was something that Army Air Force Lt. Colonel John West wanted to show his superiors for a very good reason. One reason that was not yet finished, but one that he was confident he would be able to help with.  
  
"I went over the application again last night, Lt. Colonel." The Jeep began to drive around the runway. "Your man seems to have the right qualifications we have been looking for. Over 2,000 hours of airtime during three years of service in Europe, in which he shot down over 20 Luftwaffe planes and 5 Italian bombers. At least 4,000 hours of air time and training since 1945. However…" The man flipped through the pages. "I checked over the flight data, and I see that there are others who have done much more than that. Are you sure he's qualified?"  
"Sir, if I may speak freely…" West looked behind him, scratching the graying hair in his crew cut. A buzzing noise began to echo through his ears. "All men go through intense flying on my time. However, how much it says he's flown on the data sheets isn't the only thing that put my decision to nominate him in the forefront."  
  
The hot, clear July sky was sashayed by the smoke of a biplane as it suddenly zoomed right next to the Jeep on the runway. It was red with white stripes, and as it slowed down next to the Jeep its wheels were almost touching the ground. The airman looked frightened at the sudden sight, and he quickly swerved to the right to avoid a seemingly certain mishap.   
  
"Sir! SIR!!" In response, the biplane began to edge towards the car. "Sir, what's going on?!"  
"Its ok, airman." West chuckled. "He's fine, he won't crash into you."  
  
Several seconds later, a "yee-haw" sound came from the open cockpit, followed by another, higher-pitched "yee-haw". It flew back up into the sky, high above them, high above even the watchtower, before circling back towards the end of the runway.  
  
"Lt. Colonel..." the other man in the back, wearing the decorations of another high-ranking official, turned to look at the colonel. "I'd like to ask what exactly that pilot was doing."  
"Sir, I don't think you wish to doubt the skill of Captain Garnet just yet." West smiled. "He's not one of those cocky hotshot pilots you see at other bases."  
"Hah," The man only scoffed. "Trust me, with where I come from, this guy's _normal_."  
  
The man watched, his eyes staring at the biplane, as it landed. Its wheel came out; the nose was up, the distribution of the wings was even. It touched down on the ground smoothly, riding past the Jeep again as it slowed down. The airman's mouth dropped as the red plane sailed by, slowing down and stopping nearby.  
  
"A Boeing Red Baron...." The airman stared.   
"And he handled it with skill." The man commented.   
"Most of the more experienced pilots can't get a smooth landing like that, sir." The lieutenant colonel beamed. "He's ridden some of tougher planes in his life, and has landed in tough terrains – even managed to survive a head-on collision with a German bomber out in Salerno, and still managed to save the flight book for us when we got him back."  
"Really now?"  
"He can fly and land anything you give him just as smooth anywhere, as if all there was under him was flat land. What's more, he's a plane mechanic and can almost immediately spot any problem with his eyes and ears."  
  
From the cockpit of the biplane, the man saw a helmeted head pop out from unfastening the belts, then a body with a standard pilot jacket, then the pant legs of a uniformed pilot. He almost seemed to leap out of his seat and onto the wing, where he proceeded to unstrap his passenger.   
Turning his back, the man could see a strange design on the back of the pilot's jacket. It was a blue half-saw of some sort, slightly tattered and re-sewn in some parts, but obviously well-worn.  
  
"What's that on his back, colonel?"  
"Oh…" West smirked. "His wife sewed that on for him."  
"That's a damn ugly thing."  
"From what I know its something that his wife made up for him, sir."  
"What in the…?!"  
  
The man's eyes widened as the passenger was lifted out by the pilot. It was a little child, barely four, with curly dirty blonde hair spurting out from under the helmet it was wearing. It was also wearing suspenders and a small pilot jacket. Laughing, the child proceeded to fiddle with the helmet until the pilot finally took it off for them.  
  
"That…..that's a girl!" The man's shock seemed to have no end. "Is that……his _daughter_?! _In a Red Baron?!_"  
"Yes, general…." West turned to the man. "Which brings me to the next reason I chose Captain Garnet…."  
  
The pilot now took his helmet off. He was a relatively young man, only about twenty-three or so, as his looks had still not yet lost their boyish charm. He had a soft square face and brown eyes, seemed lean in his 5'8 stature, and was all smiles. But the one thing that attracted (though not exactly in a good way) the colonel was his hair. It was a dark brown hue, and short, though not in the standard crewcut that the general would have preferred. What was more, it was sticking straight up in the air, thus looking spiky and almost tacky to the military official as he walked towards them, the girl's hand in his.  
  
"He has a very good temperament He'll get along with anyone." Beaming, West took two steps towards him and saluted. "Captain Scott Garnet!"  
  
Quickly, the captain snapped to attention, saluting to both officers before walking over to them. The girl looked up at the two men, smiling.  
  
"Colonel West." The boy smiled. "I apologize for keeping you waiting…"  
"Not at all, sir."  
"There was something you wished to see me about, sir?"  
"Yes, Garnet." West turned towards the general. "Colonel Albert Boyd of Wright-Patterson."  
  
The officer saluted, and once more Scott returned the favor. The colonel himself was no slacker - though pushing forty, he was a very built man, towering over Scott Garnet even though they were almost the same height.  
  
"Sir."  
"He's come from Muroc Field in California to talk to you." Scott's eyebrow slightly crimped up. "Its official military business, so…at the moment I'm afraid your daughter will have to leave."  
"Of course." Quickly, Scott bent down. "I'll be right there. Meet me at the car, Sherry."  
"Ok, daddy."  
  
After slowly pronouncing the words, so that she would not be loud, the little girl immediately skipped off to a blue pickup truck on the other side of the field. The colonel, despite his distaste for a girl in suspenders, could not help but let out a chuckle.  
  
"That's a, uh, rather cute young lady right there, captain."  
"My daughter, sir." Scott smiled as he looked after her, skipping to the car. "She just turned four a week ago."  
"Splendid, son." The general turned back to Scott. "I'm sure you do well to make her and your wife happy."  
"Indeed." Scott's smile went even wider. "I try my best."  
  
Colonel Boyd looked at West for a moment before looking back at Scott. Realizing his place, Scott snapped back to attention, clearing his throat. He gave a salute.  
  
"Forgive me, sir."  
"Its no problem, Captain." The officer folded his hands behind his back. "Actually, it's I whom must be forgiven, son. I'm about to interrupt your idyll here."  
"Sir?"  
"I see you like to make your wife and child happy." The colonel finally found the words he was looking for and resumed a more formal air. "Son, I am here because I have been told by your superior officer about your outstanding record for your country in the past four years. You have served your country, your family, and your community, and on this….fine Sunday….." He paused. It really _was_ a fine Sunday even though it was hot. "….On this fine Sunday, in this time of uncertainty, your country is calling upon you once more. To give your services one more time….."  
  
-------------------------  
  
The door slammed behind Scott as he came in with Sherry in his arms.  
  
"Mary?" His voice echoed through the house. "Are you home?"  
"Coming, Scott…."  
  
Down the stairs of the old, yellow, wooden-and-plaster house came a shapely young woman, not too much more than twenty. Her blond hair wasn't coiffed; rather, it was up in a towel, and her face was covered in a facial mask. This was Mary Garnet, a young woman in the prime of her age, and showing it. She looked at Scott and smiled.  
  
"I'm sorry, honey." She chuckled. "I just got out of the shower."  
"No problem." Scott stiffened up. "Mary, I need to pack my bags."  
"Hedgehog,…?"  
"I'm going to California. Tomorrow." Scott looked up at his wife, whose eyes were fast widening. "I've been called up."  
"Called up? Again? For _what_?"  
  
The gruff voice interrupted Mary, giving a cough as it entered the hall. It was an old man in his fifties, his grey hair slicked back and a pipe in his mouth. Puffing it leisurely, he turned to Scott, then back to Mary.  
  
"Leaving again, are you?" The gruff voice gave out an obvious Long Island accent. "Well, not a shock to this old boy here."  
"….Dad…." Scott looked away from the old man.  
"They're always sending you off, Hedgehog." The old man gave another cough. "And you're willing to let them! I'm telling you, for Christ's sake, it's a conspiracy. Ever since you were transferred here, a conspiracy. They enjoy taking fathers away from their children and children away from their fathers."  
"Dad, please…" Scott turned back to his father. "Not now."  
"I invited him over to dinner, Hedgehog." Mary looked at Scott's father. "Remember, you agreed?"  
"So!" The father took another puff. "Where're the military men hauling you off this time? Somewhere halfway around the world from us, where you can pick ice chunks off your plane in Siberia? Or are they taking you to some whore house down in Fiji where the heat of-"  
"Pops!" Scott's voice became sharp. "No. California."  
"Close enough."  
"Mommy…" Sherry looked up at Mary. "What's a whore house?"  
"Sir…." Quickly, Mary grabbed Sherry and placed her into the old man's arms. "Take Sherry with you to the dining room? I need to talk to my husband."  
"Of course. Talk your brains out."  
  
With another cough and a grunt, the old man took Sherry into the dining room, mumbling as he did. Shaking his head, Scott turned back to Mary.  
  
"Mary…"  
"Hedgehog…" Mary turned to go back upstairs. "Let's talk."  
"Mary, I'm sorry. They're making me go. I wouldn't be going if they didn't make me. You _know_ that, Mary."  
"No, you don't have to be." Mary walked briskly upstairs. "I just don't get why its always gotta be you. You can't possibly be the only person at the depot that knows what the hell the difference between transmission fluid and gas is."  
"That's not the only reason why they're sending me to California. At least that's what they told me."  
"Really?" There was a hint of sarcasm in Mary's voice. "That's a surprise."  
  
With a sigh, Scott followed her upstairs into their room. Walking over to the closet, he took out his military suitcase.  
  
"You really think I want to go?"  
"I understand you don't want to go." Mary opened a drawer. "But God, Scott, what do they want _now_?"  
"…Testing." Scot sat down. "They want me to be maintenance on some kind of….airplane."  
"And you can't do it here?"  
"Mary…" Scott shook his head. "I don't know what kind of plane it is. They seem desperate to get me over there, and I can't just turn my employer down. You know that."  
  
Mary gave a huff as she halfheartedly plopped some clothing onto the suitcase. Quickly, Scott took her wrist.  
  
"Let go of me. I need to wash my face."  
"Mary…." He let go of her arm. "I'm…..I'm _sorry_. I don't want to go, and if I could take you I could."  
"So we're not even going with you?" Mary gave him a slightly suspicious look. "What is so important out there that they have to separate a man from his family, the people he needs to take care of?"  
  
Scott gave no reply, and Mary shook her head as she continued throwing some clothing onto the suitcase.  
  
"….Mary…." he finally said. "I don't know. I wish I could tell you. And I wish you knew how angry this made me too. But…..I don't have a choice. I've never had much of a choice…"  
"Scott…." Mary very rarely ever called him by his real name unless she was upset. "You are barely home for Sherry as it is. How….long is it going to be for?"  
"…..Four months. Maybe six."  
"…Six months….." Mary's shoulders relaxed. "Well…..its better than some of the others you've had, I suppose."  
"Yeah...."  
  
Scott looked down at the bed, his eyes looking down to the floor. For a moment, neither of them spoke.  
  
"I...need to wash my face."  
  
With that, Mary walked out of the room, leaving Scott alone.  
  
----------------------------  
  
The behavior of his wife preyed on Scott's mind as the plane touched down in Muroe several days later.  
  
_Ugh...._. Scott wiped his brow as the sand blasted the windows of the propeller plane. The plane touched down with several sharp jolts to the rear. _It must be one hell of a secret if its out in a no-man's land like this...at least, it better be one hell of a secret._  
  
Scott could only see sand, and mountains, as far as the eye could see. In the distance of the tiny airfield, there was sweltering heat, a few shoddy military buildings and mountains. The only trace of anything other than desert was a single, small (empty) lake - Rogers Dry Lake, his pamphlet told him. Indeed, it lived up to its name; there was nothing in the crater as the plane passed by it, slowly coming to a stop.  
  
"Everyone off!" The pilot, an older man whom was balding, smirked at Scott. "This means you."  
"Yeah." Scott mumbled as he stood up. Wiping his brow, he began to exit the plane.  
"Oh, say, sonny!"  
  
Scott stopped. He turned towards the pilot.  
  
"No, turn back around, sonny." The pilot made turning motions. "What's that on your back? Little cutesy thing from your wife?"  
"Oh...."  
  
Scott got the question a lot, at least from those who knew little of him. It was a sewed-on emblem on the back of his fighter jacket, in blue, that looked like a fireball.  
  
"Them boys down there, them two," the pilot chuckled. "They have some things around them from their wives. But none on their jackets like that."  
  
The words grated on Scott's mind. He didn't feel the need to explain it to the old pilot, nor did he really want to. So he just nodded.  
  
"Yeah, from my wife."  
With a huff, Scott disembarked off of the plane, the wall of desert heat almost smacking into him even more the moment he got off. His brow was full of sweat again; wearing his pilot's uniform had been a bad choice for one used to the cold of the wintry Adirondacks and, before, the icy waters of Montauk and the Long Island Sound.  
  
"Heey! Over here!"  
  
Scott turned to the side. Two men - strapping, handsome, slightly tanned, their dark hair shaved to the military tee, both near his own age - approached him.  
  
"Heey! You must be the New Yorker from the Air Depot!"   
  
The taller of them smiled, holding out his hand. Scott gave a small smile at this, returning the hand gesture with a shake. not completely sure what to say to these men.   
  
"Well, this is new, eh Bob?" The taller one smiled. "Not from Bell, and not from the Flight Test Division. Truly.....what's your name?"  
"Garnet. Captain Scott Garnet."  
"...Yes. A fellow captain, I see." The taller one smiled, his gleaming teeth flashing in the desert's noon sun. "Another outsider to Project Blue Gale, at least at the moment."  
"Hmm?"  
"Not yet, Chuck." The other man - Bob - snorted as he nudged him. "You're not supposed to tell the new arrivals anything. Al said so....we'd have to kill him if we did."  
"...Project Blue Gale?" Scott looked at the two. "What's this?"  
"Nothing, Captain." 'Bob' smacked 'Chuck' in the head. "Nothing this 'Big Yapper' Yeager fella here can't blab about, huh?"  
"Aww, Bob!" The other man slapped him on the back. "You're too goddamn modest!"  
".....Yeager?"  
  
Scott's eyes widened; his military bag dropped in surprise at the name. Boyd had promised him something good; he wasn't expecting _this._  
  
"You.....are _Chuck Yeager_?"  
"Hmm?" The taller one looked up. "Yup, thats me."  
"The Maquis Miracle." Scott looked down. "An ace pilot in the 357th Air Division. Forgive if I sound a little idolizing, but....your record, your plight, and your return to combat afterwards, made you well-known to many pilots. I wasn't expecting to meet you, especially since I last heard that you were assigned to Wright Field."  
"Not now." Chuck shook his head. "I'm here now. At least, until they no longer need me, right Bob?"  
"Right."  
"But you still haven't answe-"  
"In good time, Scott." Chuck looked him up and down. Turning around him, Scott could feel his finger on the "SONIC" emblem. "Your wife?"  
"...My wife."  
"I have a wife as well." Chuck seemed to beam through his words. "Name's Glennis. Like a movie star. Smart and pretty. You have a nickname?"  
"Huh?"  
"Chuck isn't my real name, of course." he laughed. "Its an old nick, but we like using nicks around here. Builds up friendships. They give you a nickname in Rome? Or do we call you Scott?"  
"....Well....they called me Hedgehog."  
"What?!" Chuck's surprise, and Bob's laughing, made Scott turn a little red. "No offense, but _damn_, where'd that come from?"  
"...Ah...." Scott searched. "My wife again. She said my hair stood up like 'hog spikes."  
"...That they do, Hedgehog." Chuck's voice wasn't jesting anymore; it's tone indicated that it made sense to him. "Well, time's wasting. At 1200, Al wants us in the briefing room again. Project Blue Gale's going to be revealed to the ground crew! So, come on, Hedgehog! This way; its in the little shack right there."  
"...Sure...."  
So Scott followed, his heart sinking. Though he was glad that he had finally met a man he considered his hero - who else could have done what Chuck Yeager had done? - it was his feats that sobered Scott, sobered him to a part of himself that he wished never to see again. A part he had left behind.  
  
_.....Guys..._  
  
The door suddenly slammed behind him; there was no time to brood on the past. Instantly, Scott sat in a seat of the briefing room, which was nothing more than what Yeager had said it would be; a shack with a little projector in the back.  
  
"Good morning, men. Good morning, Captain." Col. Albert Boyd, back in fatigues, nodded to Scott. Scott weakly nodded back. "Welcome to your first, and only, briefing on USAAF Project DFRS; code name Project Blue Gale. For you on the ground crew who smoke, please put out your cigarettes; this is important."  
Immediately, the cigarettes were taken out; ashtrays and bowls of butts whirled around Scott, and several curses came from some when it was their turn to burn their cigarette butts out into the bowls. Finally, however, the cigarettes were gone, and two men took the trays and bowls out. The windows were then shuttered.  
  
"Sirs," Boyd began to pace inside the smoky, darkened room. "I've called you all here to begin a great battle. Not against Nazis, Japs, Ruskies or anything of that sort - remember, _that_ war is over." A few chuckles came from the back. "No. Our enemy this time is science, and physics. You are all here because you are to be a part of the greatest project that the United States Air Force has ever undertaken in its short history. It's a project which must be successful if we are to survive in future wars." He looked to the back. "Play it."  
  
The projector suddenly flashed to life, and footage of airplanes exploding into bits came on progressively. Boyd, paying no mind to the gasps and grumblings in the room, continued to pace and talk.  
  
"This is what our enemy is doing to our planes. But no, gentlemen, as I said this enemy is one that is invisible - we call it the 'wall of air'. However, what we are seeing is the result of pilots trying to break through the sound barrier - yes, the _sound barrier_, they're trying to go as fast as the speed of sound! - and failing miserably, their lives the cost of their failure." There were still some murmurs; Boyd waited until they had died down. "This is because of the existence of wind resistance, gentlemen. The engineers whom studied the explosions are calling this resistance the 'sonic wind' - the wind that primarily makes up this so-called 'wall of air'. According to engineers, this wind accompanies and pushes against any object attempting to break the sound barrier."  
  
This had Scott interested. He sat up a little straighter, listening intently to this new, innovative process he had never heard of before. It fascinated him for some reason.  
  
"Its all in Newton's laws; with any action there is an equal reaction. Well, the 'sonic wind' - the air resistance - is this reaction." Boyd paced more. "The faster you go, the harder the resistance. When you go fast enough, the resistance will conk your engines, your steering, everything, out. Its called compressibility, gentlemen - you, your plane gets squashed by the wind. And when that happens, BOOM! Your plane explodes because it can't handle the pressure." Several people shifted uncomfortably. "You know how hard it is to fly at 500 miles an hour? Well, these guys are trying to do 1,000 in _less than twenty minutes_, because that's how fast this is. The speed of sound is 1116 feet per second. That's a mile in five seconds, 12 miles in a minute, we're looking at about 7,200 miles in an hour...if the sound barrier is broken.  
  
"We don't know for sure that this "wall of air" exists, gentlemen, though it is certain that the 'sonic wind' theory has plausibility. It is by breaking through the 'sonic wind' air resistance - by achieving Mach 1, the speed of sound - that we are looking at." The colonel continued. "At least….unofficially….I don't buy that that this 'wall of air' should be a deterrence to you gentlemen. I believe that technology will prove to be the savior of mankind, and the key to breaking the 'wall of air', as well as your asses. This is do-or-die, gentlemen; the future of the Air Force is supersonic, no matter what they tell you back home!"  
  
At this, Chuck and Bob stood up; everyone turned to look at them.  
  
"We have been working on this for many years with Bell Technologies." Chuck and Bob walked to the front. "We had a civilian pilot who chickened out at .85 Mach speed. All piloting has reverted back to the USAAF. Our primary pilot is Capt. Charles Yeager, and the secondary is Lt. Robert Hoover, who will also act as the air speed gauge for the XS-1 model rocket planes we will be using." Another man stood up. "This man, Capt. Jack Ridley, is the USAAF's main engineer on Project Blue Gale; however, we will still be working with Bell closely." Several others stood up as well. "Jack Russel and Richard Frost; Frost is from Bell and will be monitoring our process. Jack is the civilian officer you will be minding."   
"Excuse me..." a voice piped up from the back. "Rocket? Doesn't that mean..."  
"Yes." Boyd turned to them. "You heard correctly. The XS-1 is a rocket propelled plane. Because it doesn't have any wheels it has to be dropped from the sky, from another plane. Which brings me to my next man." Another man then stood up. "Capt. Edward Swindell will be the pilot for the B-29 we will be using to hold and drop the XS-1."  
  
_So I'm a part of the fixers on the ground crew...._ For reasons he could not understand, Scot could almost feel his heart break. _I......I....guess its ok...._  
  
"You'll mind them, and remember these two things." Boyd looked up at them all. "One, this is top secret. Not even high-ranking Army brass know the full extent of our operation, and so indiscriminate telling is frowned on. You'll be kicked out and court-martialed if you belong to the USAF." The group murmured again. "Second, you will make pals with everyone on this team, administrative, engineering, ground, and pilot. If any problem, be it about the B-29 and XS1s, or about each other, arises, do not feel hesitant to tell me or someone else in the chain of command. I don't think it'd be hard; you are hungry men. Good Americans, and we all want the same thing, right?"  
"YES, SIR!" The answer was resounding.  
"We want to kick this problem in the nuts, right?"  
"**YES, SIR**!"  
  
Scott echoed, but his heart longed; for someone of his rank, out of combat, it was strange. The hunger was there like it was for the other men, regardless of their job. Yet something else was there as well in him, something that the colonel had said, which sparked something inexplicable....._free_....to him.  
  
_To match the sonic wind...._  
  
"You all now know, and you will get your papers tomorrow at this time." Boyd put his hands behind his back, beaming at the fired-up men. It was truly the beginning of success. "DISMISSED!"


	5. III

III 

  
  
  
_October 14, 1987_  
  
  
The dust that kicked behind the car settled as it finally turned into the airstrip.  
  
"...Finally." Meg quickly shut the car off. "About damn time."  
  
It was about 10:41 am, and yet the sun was already high above Edwards Air Force Base, as Meg started to get out of her car. All around her, there were hundreds of other cars parked in the dusty lot, of all shapes and sizes. Banners were strewn, in red, white and blue, from the lamp posts in the lot, waving in the wind. On several cars, there were even various paintings, scribblings and signs plastered on, also in red white and blue, saying such things as "CHUCK YEAGER: AN AMERICAN HERO" and "THE BUCK DIDN'T STOP AT CHUCK'S LUCK **HAPPY 40TH, X-1!!!!!!**" One other sign also had as word which rhymed with "Chuck", right next to the latter sign; however, it also said "VIETNAM BABYKILLER" on the bottom, which caused Meg to chuckle at liberal creativity.  
  
_Well...._ She took out her pad, her tape recorder and her purse. _At least I'm not the only one..._  
  
Only when she overturned its collar did she realize that she was still wearing the bomber jacket. She couldn't understand why, though. It was (according to the radio meteorologist) supposed to be at least 100 degrees at the base, far too hot for any jacket. Yet she wore it, and kept it on, even as she approached the gates of the airstrip. It made no sense at all to wear it.  
  
_Weird..._ she thought as she looked through the fences to the airfield. Several old, WWII-era planes sat at a distance from her eyes. _This is an ugly, old, smelly jacket. And its sweltering out here. Yet I feel safe wearing this, cool and calm under it. Almost as if...by wearing it, I'm protected against something. What, I have no clue about. It....just feels unusually safe._   
  
"Hey!"  
  
Meg's attention was suddenly turned from the comfort of her new jacket to a shout behind her. She turned towards where it came from, her eyebrow cocked up.  
  
"Hmmm?"   
  
Two Asian people - one male, one female - were walking towards her. The elder of the two, the female, looked to be in her late thirties, and was wearing a pair of denim jeans with a flowered shirt. She was wiping her short, black hair from her brow as she walked towards Meg.  
  
"Hey," she repeated in a San Franciscan accent. "Sorry for bothering you, but the entrance is all the way on the other side."  
"...Oh." Meg turned towards the fenced airfield. "Figures."  
"Oh my….!!"  
  
Meg turned her head towards the woman questioningly. The woman, in turn, was staring at the backside of Meg's jacket, her mouth open.  
  
"Oh my god…."  
"…Oh…" Meg looked away again. "Yeah, its hot, but call it a fashion statement or something."  
"….Your jacket has a Sonic decal!"  
  
  
Meg turned back around to the woman, her eyebrow crimped. For a moment, she took the jacket off, keeping the back of it with the blue decal turned towards the woman. As she did it, she felt a strange chill up her spine, and something within her told her to put the jacket back on immediately.  
  
"You know this?"  
"Know it?!" The woman laughed. "Why, it was my favorite thing to read growing up! What person my age has never heard of Sonic?"  
"….Me, perhaps?" Meg smiled.   
"Really?" The woman looked surprised. "You must have had a deprived childhood."  
"Not really."   
"But yet you never heard of Mary Garnet's books?" The woman touched the decal. "Wow, this jacket is a -type! How did you find it?"  
"Mary Garnet…."  
"_Nani?_"  
  
At this, the man stepped forward. He was several years younger than the woman, in his early thirties at most, and her too wore blue denim, as well as a casual red t-shirt with a Japanese inscription. Around his neck was a camera, and he also had a small backpack on his back.  
  
"Oh." At this, the woman talked quick, rapid Japanese, to which the man's eyes brightened up, and he gave a nod before she turned back to Meg. "Sorry, my friend knows little English at the moment."  
"Mary Garnet." Meg was frowning. "Now I know who you mean."  
"Really?"  
"Of course." Meg huffed as she put the jacket back on. Instantly the chill vanished. "No respectable Rome, New York girl could enter high school without first reading a piece of work by her."  
"You lived in Mary Garnet's hometown?!" The woman laughed. "Oh, forgive me, but I feel like a little kid again, talking about my favorite books. Its been awhile since I've done some good reminiscing."  
"Heh." Meg gave a none-too-pleased smirk. "What did you say your name was again?"  
"Oh…." The woman was taken aback by Meg's rudeness, but because she had a seemingly (and, Meg thought, annoyingly) good disposition, it was only for an instant and she gave a toothy smile. "Forgive my rudeness! You must think I'm some strange weirdo for just talking to you with no particular reasons for doing it. My name's Joan O'Meara."  
"An O'Meara? You could've fooled me."  
"By marriage, of course. I'm a professor at Berkeley." Joan shook Meg's hand, then motioned for the young man. "This is Naoto Ohshima. He lives in Japan."  
"…_Hailo_" The man gave a slight bow as he shook her hand.   
"Hmm." Meg broke the handshake off. "Pleasure." She looked at Joan as she spoke. "My name's Margaret Rye. I'm a financial analyst for the Wall Street Journal."  
"New York City?" Joan chuckled. "A little out of the way, don't you think?"  
"An assignment I didn't want." Meg looked over at the airfield. On it were two planes and five mechanics, none of them looking like Chuck Yeager. "….Rather empty for an important event starting at eleven, don't you think?"  
"Oh, they changed it, actually, "Joan replied. "It was on the news; it's not starting until two o'clock."  
"Oh…._really_?"  
"Yeah. They made a nationwide bulletin for all the news people who were coming to the event." Joan pointed to herself. "Myself, I'm doing it for our paper as the "teacher article of the month", and since there was nothing else really going on up in San Fran…"  
  
_Well…_ Margaret wanted to smash a car window at that. _I fretted my ass off, was one inch from getting into an accident with some freak driver and nearly gave myself a @#%$ ulcer while getting here for nothing. Thanks for noting this to me, George, you _@#%$_!_  
  
"So what do we do then?"  
"Find a place to wait." Joan wiped the hair out of her eyes again. "There's a McDonald's on this base somewhere, I believe."  
"_Where_?"  
"…Down three blocks from the airfield."  
"Ok. Thank you. Nice to see you."  
  
With that, Meg turned from them abruptly, and started to walk off from the two Japanese. However, stopped as she took her second step and her mind ran off confused as she did.   
  
She really didn't want to be bothered with ever knowing the woman and her companion again, especially since she was not Caucasian - and, though she wouldn't admit it in public, Meg had always been a little xenophobic and perhaps a bit bigot, mainly towards those not of European descent. She hated dealing with foreign people, and people of foreign descent, for no particular reason other than the fact that she had lived a relatively sheltered life in Rome, and her only experience with anyone a shade paler than ivory white was with the annoying fake jewelry sellers down in Lower Manhattan near Times Square. They bothered her immensely, and were rude when she didn't buy anything. She had even almost been assaulted by one when she refused to buy his stock, and since then wouldn't touch, let alone speak, to non-white people or buy things off of street venders.  
  
Yet, whether it was because she wore the jacket (as, by buying it, she broke one of those credos), or because something about Joan just (_somehow_) appealed to her, or the fact that she had nothing better to do, she immediately regretted her decision and turned back to face the two.  
  
"…..I'll come with you if you don't mind."  
"Oh! Wonderful!" Joan quickly spoke in Japanese to her companion, who shrugged. "Come on, I've got plenty of room in my Citation."  
"….How….nice…."  
"Naoto?"  
  
Naoto snapped his head towards Joan. He had been looking towards a hill several hundred feet away, at a small cloud of dust that had collected at the base.  
  
"_Hai, hai,_" he mumbled distractedly as he nodded." _Makadanarusu_."  
"Come on." Joan looked over at the small cloud as she led him off. "A convoy truck, most likely; they kick up a lot on the dirt roads. Come on, lets go."  
  
As the two walked off towards a small, dented, silver Chevy parked near the main road, Meg shook her head in blatant confusion, her eyes wide in self-disgust as she followed. Just what the _hell_ was wrong with her today?  
  
"Here!" Joan opened the passenger side of the two-door car. "You can sit in the back if you don't mind; Naoto's a bit tall for the back."  
"Sure. No problem."  
"Just be careful when you sit, though; its an all-leather interior."  
  
_Thanks for the warning_, Meg thought just as she plopped onto the seat. The burning sensation of hot leather instantly scorched her legs, hands and back, and she winced in pain and closed her eyes.  
  
"Fasten your seat belts!" Joan hopped into the driver's seat and fastened her own belt. "Even though its an empty street, you can't be too careful!"  
  
With that, a lead foot went onto the accelerator, and the Citation went flying down the road. As she was plastered to her seat, Meg could only shake her head as Joan blasted up Tommy James and the Shondells. She could only wonder yet again, through a Japanized chorus of "I Fell Fine" to the song "Dragging the Line", as to what the hell she was doing this for.


	6. IV

IV  
  
Dear Mary and Sherry,  
  
August 15, 1947  
  
***WARNING, TYPE 4729-BRX: SENSITIVE MATERIAL CENSORED BY USAF***  
  
To Mary:  
  
I am having an incredible time here. Its been long and hard, as I've been having to be trained in a new type of mechanics. It has difficult to explain to you what I have been called in for, for many of reasons, some sensitive, some just difficult to explain period.....let us say that I have been called in to work "?f---(?(?&#\]ff§¢??????-?. I have had to absorb everything I've learned like a sponge, though I have little problem with it. It is different from before. The first test *h"?????????? ____"#???-- *h"??????Æ^???.  
  
I've learned that you may be able to visit near the end of the time I have here. Though, its in the middle of nowhere, and very hot, so I'm not sure about whether you want Shelley in a swoon like that.  
  
But no matter what, no matter if you visit or not, I still love you, and remember to kiss Shelley for me at night. Also, please, if you must tell her THE STORY, be careful not to mention anything bad I may have written to you before. I would prefer her not to know all of it, like I would tell her.  
  
Also, check up on my dad; he sounded hoarser the last time I spoke to him on the phone.  
  
Sherry: Are you being good for mommy and grandpa? Make sure you eat your food, and sleep with Bear Bear at night. I hear you are going to go to preschool in Westmoreland with Mrs. Cianfracco? Make lots of friends there and tell me how it turns out!  
  
Love to all of you,  
  
Your Hedgehog  
  
(and to Shelley, your Daddy) XXOOLL  
  
---------------------  
  
August 29, 1947  
  
The crowd at Fly Inn was louder than normal on the hot August night.  
  
"WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" Jack Ridley, the head USAF engineer, was on a table, a mug of cold brew in his hand. "To the third fastest man alive, Chuck Yeager! CHEERS!"  
  
The entire bar - filled with USAF and Bell personnel - cheered and smacked their glasses together in a slight drunken stupor. Earlier that day, Chuck Yeager, junior pilot in comparison to most his rank, had achieved a speed of .85Mach on the first true test run of the XS-1. Everyone, even Colonel Boyd, had put on their better clothes and packed into Pancho Barnes' little run-down restaurant to celebrate.  
  
"Ok, ok!!" Boyd laughed. "But remember, we've got to survive to one Mach without a hangover, right men?"  
  
This had everyone whooping up a laughing storm in the dimly lit restaurant, clinking glasses again and reveling in a euphoric atmosphere; one not seen, it could be said, since the end of the war two years earlier. The beer and gin passed easily through the throats of the men, singing a raspy song of celebration on their accomplishments.  
  
"Hey, Hedgehog!"  
  
"Hedgehog?"  
  
"Yeah. Scott Garnet. Hedgehog! Whoop! Ha ha!"  
  
Bud Anderson, flanked by another man, laughed as he sat down at a small wooden table next to Scott. Scott, in turn, had sat alone, a shot of rum in his hands. He gave a nod to them as he sat.  
  
"Chuck told me your nice porcupine nickname." He laughed. "Don't be alarmed, though. I'm a friend of Chuck's; he'll be here soon, he's getting his wife who's staying in Los Angeles for the duration."  
  
"Wife?"  
  
"Glennis. Damn fine woman." Bud turned to his associate. "Scott Garnet - call him Hedgehog - meet Captain John Redson. He's the go-to man for Bell and the USAF since 1945."  
  
"Pleased to meet you." Scott shook Redson's hand.  
  
"Yes, Bud." Redson smirked. "I've heard some stories of the beautiful wife of our legendary friend. But maybe you can regale us two ignoramuses on her beauty. As, Bud, you are, of course, the close friend of the Yeagers."  
  
"Baah, bullcrap there!" Bud laughed. "Chuckie'd kill me if I had anything intimate with his wife! 'Sides which, I have my own wife that satisfies me just perfect, thank you!"  
  
"I'll drink to that." Scott swigged his rum down.  
  
"Bah, single men always lose out." Redson smirked. "Though I've seen a few wild cats in my lifetime that can whip the skirt off of any delicate lamb- like housewife with the right moves."  
  
"Oh yeah," Scott couldn't help but smirk.  
  
"Oh, yeah." Redson swigged another sip. "Like the Jap show girl prostitutes. They call 'em geishas, and they cater to the sorts of people like the emperor of the country. Not only can they make your privates burn for the price of a gallon of milk." Those who heard were roaring with laughter at this, ".but they can sing, dance and give you rice wine simultaneously while doing it! And they start out fully clothed, made up, all dolled up with all the trappings! Like tamed tigers, I tell you! They'll treat you like a king more, on less money, than any cat or lamb in this county!"  
  
"Sounds nice," Scott murmured quietly.  
  
"OOH HOHO HO HO!" Bud roared. "If you get that for the price of milk, I'm changing drinks right this instant!!"  
  
This resulted in a loud ovation of laughter, and glasses clinked as the men gave a shout to the geishas of Japan.  
  
"Heeey!" Suddenly, the voice of Jack Ridley silenced everyone. "Look who's coming!"  
  
At that, Chuck Yeager entered, still wearing his pilot uniform and jacket, beaming from ear to ear. Crooked onto his left arm was the bare, ivory arm of a shapely young woman, who wore an orange cotton short-sleeved shirt with black slacks down to her nylon-laced knees. Her lips were colored the perfect tinge of crimson, and her mascara was perfectly applied to her face, which needed little makeup to enhance her radiant, youthful features, even against the dimly lit, smoky room.  
  
As she entered, the room became completely silent for a moment, so that only the sound of her black heels could be heard clomping on the bar's wooden floor. All eyes stared at her stunning beauty, and even Scott was taken aback by the almost unreal aura of perfection that seemed to surround her.  
  
"Well well!" She laughed as she tossed her jacket to her husband. "Chuck, you'd think I was the Mata Hari the way your friends looked at me! Too bad I forgot how to speak German, eh?"  
  
"That's not the impression I got last night, Glennis." Chuck snorted.  
  
"Oh, you naughty!" Glennis laughed as she smacked him on the shoulder. "That's the last time I talk to you at night!"  
  
This provoked the room again, and they began to laugh hard as Chuck ducked and attempted to defend himself from Glennis' mock rage. Then, he ran behind Boyd, who laughed at the scene.  
  
"Boss! You gotta help me!"  
  
"Aaah, help you nothing!" Boyd and Glennis both laughed. "Not until you've had a few beers!"  
  
"So this is the great Albert Boyd my husband talks about." Glennis held out her hand to him. "He's told me all about you."  
  
"And likewise, you must be the beautiful Glennis that Chuck always speak of." Boyd smile as he kissed her hand. "When he said you were like a movie star, he wasn't kidding."  
  
"A movie star!" Someone said as they raised their glass. "I'd say like Helen of Troy!"  
  
"Helen of Troy!" Everyone laughed as Chuck shook his head, chortling. "You'd be better off outta the horse then trying for her, Jack!"  
  
"Glennis!" Jack laughed in reply, holding his glass up. "To Glennis, the most beautiful woman in the world next to Helen of Troy! Glamorous Glennis!"  
  
Then, to Scott's surprise, Jack began to sing, his tones in a drunk, off tone set of notes.  
  
"Oooh, when I look upon my Glennis." He stumbled towards Glennis, his tone even more off-key as he did it. "The world stops for yooooooooou..."  
  
More laughter rang out at this, and a small chorus started to sing in loud, slurred bar and timbre of note to the song, one which they all knew by heart. It had been, after all, a very big hit by a famous artist the year before, though everyone was too drunk to remember the singer's name.  
  
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!" The bar laughed at the sustained word. "Glamorous Glennis, that look you give! Beautiful Glennis, I'm.positiiive! The feeling in my heeaaaart, its all riiiight.."  
  
Scott shook his head at the revelry, his thoughts tinged with reminders of Mary at the song; it had been a favorite of hers and she even had a record of it. Nevertheless, though, he smiled from all the beer he took in. He looked at the bottom of his mug, thought for a moment, and then went up to the bar. The sensation he had overtook thoughts of Mary, and if the beer could make it stick, then he'd simply have another round. He got to the bar as the song's final verse rang out from every other person in the bar.  
  
"Can I staaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay with yoooooooooooooooooooou toniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"  
  
-------------------------------  
  
This was going to be his last drink.  
  
It was past midnight, and Scott was still at the bar, his hand drowsily on a glass of Budweiser. He knew, from the amount of beer he had, that the chance of a hangover was imminent in the morning. Yet it mattered not to him. For on top of being drunk on the brew, he was drunk on something else entirely too abstract for human mouths to drink from.  
  
He took another gulp, and the scene of that afternoon came back to him. He had helped Chuck Yeager into the XS-1 as it was being loaded into the B-52, and an hour later, watched it as it flew like a shooting star in the desert afternoon. The sensation of simply watching the rocket as it was dropped from the B-52, only to soar on its own at a speed that had once been inconceivable to his ignorant mind was incredible. Though there had been several runs before, the results of those didn't match the feeling he had now.  
  
Like a bird.. His finger rubbed over the edge of his glass. To be free like that..to have no cares save that you only have to go faster...The look on Chuck's face when he got out of the plane was so..different. Like the experience changed him. It boiled his blood to go faster...like I want to go..and then I..  
  
"Hedgehog."  
  
Scott slowly turned around to see Redson. The alcohol had not completely worn off of him, for his face was still flushed as he sat down next to Scott.  
  
"Still here, so close to last call?"  
  
"..Still got an hour left."  
  
"Well, guess since there's nothing else to do." Redson smacked his hand on the table. "Kamikaze for me, keep!"  
  
"'Kamikaze'?"  
  
"Vodka." A shot was put down in front of Redson. "Also get me a beer. This mixture's very potent and makes your mouth dry. Gets you drunk quick."  
  
"Nice."  
  
".Glennis.." Redson shook his head. "Now that...that is something to get drunk over if she left you."  
  
"Indeed." Scott chuckled. "Sounds nice."  
  
"Beautiful." Redson hummed. "But all women are beautiful when you're single, especially the married ones, sadly."  
  
"Don't go near my wife then."  
  
".Wife, Hedgehog?" Redson's eyebrow crimped. "You got yourself a wife?"  
  
Scott knew what was coming next. He wasn't too keen on telling anyone here at Muroe, especially since the other men met their wives in much more respectable circumstances. However, the drink was in him, and it worked to the point where much of his sense was gone, and so he hummed and gave a chuckle as he contemplated his answer.  
  
"So, what's your story?"  
  
"...If you must know..." Scott fingered the glass  
  
"Where'd you meet your girl?"  
  
"...Mt. Sinai. A bit a ways away from my town."  
  
"Really?" Redson looked surprised.  
  
"Yeah...." Scott looked into the empty glass. "I knew her bro from my high school track team meets. She....was sixteen."  
  
There was a moment of silence from Redson at this. Scott could feel himself shrivel up at the fact he was even telling a man who was still a stranger to him his deep secrets. After all, such things were looked upon down what Scott slipped out.  
  
".....Ooooh...." And yet Redson only laughed. "Hey. It happens to fellas all the time. You're not the only one. You can consider your secret safe with me." He then smirked. "'Sides which, we're both drunker than dead cats in a cadaver class, so's not like we all'll remember nothing of it."  
  
"I was in love with her, though." Scott stared at the mug still. "I still do like her, quite a bit, maybe even more than before."  
  
"So a hedgehog's teenaged fling blossomed into true love." Redson raised his glass in a romantic gesture, although in his state drunkenly shaky. "So, you knock her up?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You have to marry her?"  
  
"I didn't mind it at all," Scott felt himself pale. "Though my dad gave me a few smacks for it. Almost broke my jaw doing it too."  
  
"Bah," Redson snorted as he swayed. "I'd never hit my kids like that. A good spanking does much better."  
  
"Married....then drafted." Scott put the glass down. "They called me a week later. I turned 18 in January. I got into the Air Force, and I was active with the 12th in Ellsworth down in South Dakota. Worked out of England, was in the European theater for about a year as a bomb squadron pilot." He paused. "Got reassigned in 1944 to the interceptor squadron - the 10th from Alaska - and when the war ended they sent me back to Rome Air Depot to be closer to my family."  
  
"Hmm....12th, right?" Redson smiled. "You were in the Italian invasion by any chance?"  
  
"Yes...I was selected. I was a part of some of the overnight bombings over Salerno."  
  
"A part of the big fight, eh?" Redson smiled, but shook his head. "I got hit by a beam in the face. Lost some of my vision, so they stopped me from fighting. Had to retire, but when I started working for Bell they called me back up as liason between the military and Bell."  
  
"A shame." Scott looked into his glass, his eyes hazing up from all the liquid he drank. He staggered up. "I gotta be going soon."  
  
As he started to stagger up, Redson took his arm for a moment.  
  
"One thing...Now, this'll sound strange....but I never got to see combat, so...." Redson looked at Scott. "Hedgehog, you ever kill anyone during that campaign you were in at Salerno? How'd it feel?"  
  
Scott gulped down the rest of his beer. Though his mind was almost completely bogged with beer and rum, a spark of sense seemed to appear at the question.  
  
"....Nope." He took his arm out of Redson's grip. A ghost of a smirk came on his face. "Never killed no one. Never saw anyone die. Sorry to disappoint you, man."  
  
With that, he staggered out of the bar, knowing that he, and Redson, would be too drunk to remember anything they said in the morning. And he was glad for that.  
  
-----------------------  
  
Click.  
  
The lantern swung like a pendulum, slowly, silently, as it was turned on. The light that came from it shined on the face of the interrogator as it swung towards the door.  
  
"Unverschämtheit. Sie sprechen von den Plänen Ihres Kommandanten. Warten Sie einen Moment und Sie sehen."  
  
There was no reply from the shadows. Turning on his heels, the interrogator - in his mid-forties, his features chiseled through years of war and hatred - adjusted his decorated brown uniform haughtily as he turned from the racial specimen he beheld. With a spit to the floor, he left the room, closing the basement door behind him.  
  
"Kapitän. Diesen abgeschlossen?" He asked as he tromped up the stairs of the modest cottage.  
  
"Ja, Kommandant."  
  
"Gut." The commander motioned to the beefy man behind the. "Rufen Sie den Unterbrecher herbei."  
  
The beefy man nodded, and took off his top. He was a fearful man, the perfect person to break a prisoner, to bleed information out of them. His veins visibly bulged as he adjusted his undershirt - a black garment, with the feared symbol of the swastika blazed boldly on the front. He was a member of the feared Black Shirts, and while they were not as renowned as the brown-shirted SS, or as harsh as the death camp kapo, they were no less brutal. The owners of the house - an Italian coffee store owner and his wife - knew this too well and could account for it; at least, they would have, if they had not already been dispatched the day before.  
  
Cracking his knuckles, and exercising his hands for the upcoming task, he walked downstairs behind the commander, puffing out his already muscular chest and letting the breath out. Behind him was another soldier, though not a commanding officer. He tucked his hair under his hat as he followed.  
  
Finally, they opened the door, and the commander spoke again, this time pronouncing slowly to get the correct syllables out.  
  
"Scott Garnet."  
  
The soldier sat in the dank, dark room, his hands tied so tightly behind his back that they were bleeding.  
  
"Sie sind Amerikaner. Und Sie werden mit uns sagen wenn Sie Ihr Leben bewerten. Welche Ihre Entladung in Den amerikanischen Luftkräften?"  
  
Scott simply looked at the German men. In the dark, all of the glittering medals on the officer seemed to dance on his uniform demonically when they caught the dim lamp light.  
  
"Ob von welchem die Einheit Sie ist? Wo Sie geleitet wurden?" The officer smirked, then with a nod allowed the breaker to punch Scott square in the mouth. " ANTWORTEN SIE mich, der Hund!"  
  
"I..."  
  
Scott spat out blood. It was difficult to concentrate, to even form words. He had not been fed for several days since they found him, tangled up in his plane parts outside of the city. His ears rang from the impact, and he knew full well what could happen if they had any idea of the plans his squadron had.  
  
"I..don't..."  
  
"ANTWORT!" Another punch connected with Scott's face, and he almost was knocked out from it. "Minderwertiger Jude, wo die Verbündeten sind, zum zu landen, nachdem sie Salerno? in Angriff genommen haben!"  
  
"I...don't...know...German.."  
  
"ANTWOOOORT!"  
  
"Kommandant!"  
  
Suddenly, the soldier stepped up into the light. The commander looked at him with widened eyes, and the Black Shirt turned to face him. From his position, as blurry as it was, Scott could see that the soldier was relatively young, almost his age.  
  
"Obergefreites!" The commander's words were through clenched teeth. "Ist dieses insubordinance?"  
  
" Mit Respekt kann Kommandant," The young man stepped forward. "der amerikanische Jude möglicherweise nicht die Sprache des Vaterlands kennen. Lassen Sie mich mit ihm in seiner Muttersprache sprechen, und er kann bis zu mir erweichen." The soldier smirked. " Amerikaner sind so minderwertig."  
  
"..Ja."  
  
Nodding, the commander nodded, and the Black Shirt took a step back, cracking his knuckles. Slowly, Scott watched as the soldier circled him for a good minute, looking down on him in the light.  
  
".GRAH!!"  
  
Scott almost screamed louder when the soldier suddenly pulled the hair centered around a concussion he had received in crashing his plane. Almost just as fast, he could feel the soldier's breath on him, and turning up he could see glimpses of the fiery crimson hair tucked under his cap as he whispered into his ear.  
  
"No worrying, American." The whisper was very soft and low, but it sounded callous as well. "Play. They think I torture you, but calmness to my play and you will free soon."  
  
"...Fine.." Scott gulped. "..I..I don't know..anything.."  
  
The soldier nodded, as if to confirm Scott's response, as if to agree to Scott's consent. Then he stood back up. His hand almost instantly flew back into Scott's face, balled up in a fist-  
  
*CRAAAAASH*  
  
"AAAAAH!"  
  
His eyes bolted open, and he flew up, gasping for breath as he held his chest. It had contracted tightly from the crashing sound; it had sounded like the pounding of mortar shells upon a wooden roof in his deep sleep.  
  
Looking over, however, he saw that his flailing arm had, in his fitful sleep, knocked his clock off of its stand. Again.  
  
God dammit.. As Scott attempted to get up, he was instantly hit by a hangover headache. I really need to stop drinking so much one day..  
  
It had not been the first time his flailing in sleep had disturbed him, and Scott knew it wouldn't be the last, given the dreams he had. With a moan, he looked down at the clock, and turned it over. What he saw gave him a shock.  
  
"NINE THIRTY FIVE?!"  
  
The dream, and the hangover, had made him late - very late. He was instantly up, throwing his clothing on as he ran out the door. He flew out of the shack, through the small line of shacks for the out-of-state officers and onto the field, his shirt barely on. As he went towards the middle, however, he stopped.  
  
What the..  
  
There was no one on the field as he looked around, at least no one working. The planes were not out; the wood hangars were shuttered and closed off. The only sign of work, or of anyone there, was a group of four mechanics talking with Jack Ridley, which Scott spotted over to the far left of the airfield from where he stood. Quickly, he walked over to them, buttoning up his shirt as he did.  
  
".you sure?"  
  
"I'm positive."  
  
"So we start again tomorrow?"  
  
"That's right."  
  
As the workers walked off grumbling, Ridley lookup up and spotted Scott approaching him at a brisk pace. Nodding, he walked over to the young man.  
  
"Captain Garnet."  
  
"Sir." Scott hastily saluted him as he finished buttoning his shirt. "Sir.I apologize for being late-"  
  
"No apologies, Hedgehog." Ridley shook his head; everyone now called him Hedgehog, even the commanding project officers. "As you were. The colonel called it a day off today on short notice. You weren't the only one who was taken by surprise."  
  
"..Day off?" Scott looked at Ridley, confused. "Why-"  
  
"The official reason is that Yeager is sick."  
  
".Oh. With, uh, a common illness we had?"  
  
"..The official reason."  
  
Scott paused. He noticed a look of worry in Ridley's eyes.  
  
".I won't inquire, sir."  
  
"No, Hedgehog, I think its best you know." Ridley looked down. "You are an officer, you are in the chain-of-command. You have a right to know."  
  
"How am I in the chai-"  
  
"If you weren't in the chain I would still tell you as a confidant. I know I can trust you, you look like a good fella, Hedgehog." Ridley interrupted Scott. "The real reason was because..there was an incident at the Yeager's temp house last night."  
  
"..What?!"  
  
"Someone broke into their house while they were out last night. It happened sometime at 0300 this morning." Ridley looked at the shocked captain's face. "Yes, it's a surprise. Especially with what they took from the Captain and his wife."  
  
".What did they take?"  
  
".Items of sentimental value. Nothing like jewelry - more like their entire bookshelf." Scott's mouth hung open. "A lot of photos. A lot. And plenty of other personal items."  
  
"..But no jewelry? No money?"  
  
"None." Ridley shook his head. "I went there and saw it. But I'd say you agree it's bizarre, and its scared Chuckie and Glennis a bit."  
  
"..How are they coping? I mean..."  
  
Scott's head went down. He thought of Mary and Sherry, and of other things, as he spoke.  
  
".Who could do that?"  
  
"Someone who's insane, that's for sure." Ridley was still shaking his head. After a moment, he stopped and patted Scott's shoulder. "But we'll have to leave it up to the MPs at Wright Field. For now, enjoy the day off, Hedgehog."  
  
Scott nodded as Ridley walked off. He rubbed his head, his eyes gazing involuntarily towards the sky, towards the horizon of the distant mountains. He wondered how the Yeagers could be holding up with such a terrible thing happening to them. He then wondered, deep within himself, who would be so insane as to take such precious memories away from the loving couple he had seen the previous night. 


	7. V

V  
  
As the car finally found a parking space at the Edwards AFB McDonald's, Meg knew it was going to be a long wait before they would get anything.  
  
"Wow!" Joan covered her eyes from the glaring pre-noon sun. "I guess we weren't the only people to come here, huh?"  
  
"I guess not." Meg mumbled as she untangled herself from the back seat. "Took us long enough to find a parking space."  
  
"Well." Joan started walking. "Since this is close to the airfield, I'm not surprised."  
  
As the three walked into the fast food restaurant, they were met with a sound like that of buzzing flies. People pushed through them to leave the building, and the building inside was jam-packed with people of all ages, shouting, screaming, and crying. There were children who flung their Happy Meal toys on the floor, and their admonishing parents. There were seniors there for the sake of their daily routine, talking of the good old times and gossip, their coffees cold from neglect.  
  
"Hi." Meg came up to the counter, only to be met by the dense babbling of one of the teenage workers. "Welcome to McDonald's. Can I take your order?"  
  
".Yes." Meg replied curtly. "Coffee."  
  
"Anything else?"  
  
"Coffee. Black."  
  
"Total is 50 cents."  
  
Mumbling several choice words towards the dense teen, Meg took the coffee, threw the two quarters at him and sat down at a table that opened up by the window. She had to slide in carefully, lest she get bubble gum from under the table onto her pants.  
  
"@#%$ stupid kid.." She muttered as she opened the plastic flask. The coffee inside was brown. "I said black, you idiot."  
  
She had every reason to go over and give the crack addict a piece of her mind; however, she decided that it was a waste of her collective time and started to take off her new jacket. As she did this, she paused mid-action.  
  
...How strange..  
  
A strange feeling, a cold sensation, seeped into the skin not covered by the jacket. It caused her skin to prickle, and Meg herself, for no particular reason, shuddered. It wasn't that Meg was one to really shy away from cold; she had lived half of her life in a place that got, on average, several days of sub-zero weather and hundreds of feet of snow. Nor was the McDonalds air-conditioned to freezing point; actually, it was not very cold at all. Yet Meg felt compelled to put the jacket back on.  
  
"What the hell...damn..idiots," she muttered as she put it back on. Upon it returning over her arms, the sensation of comfort came back, and with it, the sensation of safety as well.  
  
"Hey there!"  
  
Meg looked up to see Joan approaching the table. In her hands was a tray of lunchtime food - a Big Mac, two fries and two Coca Colas. Over her head sailed a paper ball, which landed on Meg's table.  
  
"Gregory Wilson!" The annoying scream of a little boy filled Meg's ears as the mother took him up. "I think its time for us to go."  
  
"Nooooooo! Waaaaaah!"  
  
The little boy kicked and screamed as Meg watched him get dragged off. With a smirk, Meg took a small sip of her unwanted coffee, taking pleasure from the little brat's predicament.  
  
"This is why I didn't have kids.."  
  
"Incredible, I should say. This place is crowded!" Joan sat down with a chuckle. "We still have a good two hours before the air show actually starts, so this McDonalds is a good place to rest."  
  
"I'm sure." Meg put her cup of coffee back down onto the table. "So, where's your friend?"  
  
"The bathroom. There's a line."  
  
"Oh."  
  
For a moment, not a word was exchanged between the two women. The obvious awkwardness was mostly Meg's fault; she was still not used to the Japanese woman, nor was she too keen on knowing the bubbly professor.  
  
"Well!" Joan broke the silence. "This is some crappy food here, no?"  
  
".Yeah. I asked for black coffee." Meg closed the flask on the cup. "So...who is this Naoto guy with you now? What does he do?"  
  
"Oh, a friend of a friend..of a friend," Joan smiled. "He's an developmental artist from Tokyo. He works  
  
a software company designing video games."  
  
"Heh. Video games." Meg sniffed. "Just the thing to rot children's minds nowadays. Rock music and pinball we can live with, huh?"  
  
"Heh." Joan shrugged. "He's been going around various venues around San Francisco and the Bay Area, trying to get some ideas."  
  
"Ideas?"  
  
"He's got to come up with a mascot for the company. Well." Joan chuckled. "He doesn't have to, but he's been working with a game designer to try to get a commission from the company to make a video game mascot to rival The Super Mario Bros.. He's so far made this wolf, but he has to put some special qualities "  
  
"I heard of them." Meg rolled her eyes. "My sister has the video game system - Nintenny or Nantada or Wakka Wakka or something like that - some company in Japan - She plays it whenever I'm over at her house. The music is incredibly annoying at 2 in the morning."  
  
".You mean Nintendo?" Joan was amused. "Say, where does your sister live? Rome?"  
  
"No..Syracuse, NY."  
  
"Aah..." Joan smiled. "Sorry to get back on it, but I'd really like to know where you got that jacket. Its got the Sonic decal on it."  
  
"..You and Sonic." Meg shook her head. "What is your deal with that?"  
  
"I loved him as a kid. My mom always read them to me." Joan looked out the window. "Every time she read them, I felt safe and happy, because Sonic could do anything. You know, the way all kids feel about their superheroes. That they'll tuck you in at night."  
  
"I never read Sonic."  
  
"Really? A Rome New Yorker that didn't read Sonic?"  
  
"I don't believe in fairies. I don't believe in Santa Claus." Finally, Meg simply left the coffee at the edge of the table. "I don't enjoy fantasy. I don't base any of my obsessions on anything that doesn't have the slightest basis in reality. That's my job as a reporter, to separate fact from fiction but I've always felt that way."  
  
"You'd be surprised, Meg..you don't mind if I call you Meg, do you?..you'd be surprised at the basis of Sonic the Hedgehog, then."  
  
"..No.." Meg looked down. "I don't mind you calling me Meg..Joan."  
  
Before Joan could reply to her sarcastic remark, Naoto returned, carrying a cup of soda with him.  
  
"Eh," he said warily. "Vey karaweded."  
  
"Indeed." Joan gave Meg a look. "Look, we'll be leaving in a few minutes for the airfield. So hurry and drink up, right?"  
  
"Hai."  
  
"Oh, Naoto, I already got you a soda."  
  
Meg did not watch them eat or drink; she just looked out of the window again. She didn't particularly them because they were Japanese; it had been in her nature to dislike them since as far back as she could remember. Being a financial analyst, she also only felt it fair that she should be pushy towards people, many who were also pushy to begin with. It was a dog eat world in Manhattan with the high rollers, and as signs of a faltering economy began to loom, the atmosphere became more cutthroat than ever.  
  
Yet she forgot how to live and interact around normal people as a result. Now, she was not on Wall Street, and these people were not stockbrokers. She again felt compelled to apologize as Naoto finished his Big Mac. She didn't need to.  
  
".Look.."  
  
"Well." Joan shrugged as she went for her purse. "I guess I should cut you some slack. You are a reporter, after all; I guess you have your reasons for your attitude." At this, she actually gave a frown. "But you could cut me some here, huh? You've still got to drive back with me, Ms. Rye."  
  
".Right."  
  
Without another word, Meg stood up out of the booth and promptly went over to a garbage pail. She tossed the coffee out, wondering why she felt so guilty about being so rude. She had never felt that way before towards most people, even talking about silly bedtime stories.  
  
With a sigh, she followed Joan and Naoto, trying to figure out why she felt confused as she did about the situation. As a reporter in her field, she wasn't suppose to care about what others thought as long as she got the story correct. And frankly, she felt some of the people she dealt with on a daily basis deserved a stiff upper lip.  
  
"Oh!" A gust of wind met Joan as she went to push open a door. "The wind's picking up a bit here."  
  
".Indeed.."  
  
Meg mumbled a bit as she went to the car, striding behind Joan and Naoto. The wind was beginning to pick up a little, as Joan said. Dust and sand was flying into Meg's face as she walked. Yet she didn't seem to notice as she brought her jacket even closer into her body, wondering why the hell she was acting the way she was and what the hell was suddenly causing it. 


	8. VI

VI

  
  
  
September 9, 1947  
  
Dear Scott,  
  
Has it been two months already? Golly, how time flies! Its very hot here in New York, though I imagine it must be hotter still down where you are. It is the desert, after all.  
  
By the by, how is your mission going? I hope its going well. Its been going ok up here; Sherry's been having fun at school, so that's very good for me to see. My job at the office is getting a little more hectic, but I'm ok with that.  
  
I also brought your father to the doctor; he wouldn't say what was wrong, if anything. That cough's gotten worse, but you know your father; he's as stubborn as a mule. No use in getting him to talk, even if he is your father.  
  
Well, I hope everything goes well for you!  
  
Love,  
  
Mary  
  
  
  
September 12, 1947  
  
Dear Mary,  
  
Sorry for the short letter, but I was happy to get your letter. Its good to hear everything is going swell with you. Don't let my dad get you down; just keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn't do anything terrible, right? And watch out for when he insults you.  
  
Tell Sherry to be good, and to say her prayers before bedtime.   
  
XXOOLL  
  
Your Hedgehog  
  
---------------------------  
  
September 14, 1947  
  
"Base, this is Yeager, flying at 24,000 ft, over."  
"Copy, Yeager, we read you. Over."  
  
The XS-1, the Glammorus Glennis, flew valiantly overhead in the bright desert sky. It was nothing more than a tiny dot above to those on the ground; even then, one could only see it with binoculars. Nevertheless, it was in judging Yeager's voice that one knew how well the flight seemed to be going.  
  
"I'm flying high, base!" The men in the control tower could hear a laugh as the radio crackled. "Going up to .93 Mach and waiting spot."  
"Hoover here, spotting your speed." The voice of the spotter, Lt. Robert Hoover, came on. "Looking good. Compression looking good."  
"Copy, we read you. Over."  
  
Boyd clicked off his remote. He gave a nod; everything was going well. However, he knew that they were close to an important point in the trials, and that what happened next would be very important to the entire project. After all, .94 Mach was the speed in which many pilots had suddenly lost control of their planes, had started to tailspin, or had even started to vibrate so badly that the wind resistance caused their plane to explode.  
  
"I need a spot check on some of the engine controls….Redson?" Boyd looked around as he began to fan himself. Unknowingly, he had clicked on his remote as he spoke. "Where the hell is he?"  
"Drinking, most likely." Bud Anderson's reply caused Boyd to jump. "He was down at Barnes' last night getting completely shit-faced, sir."  
"….God damnit." Boyd's face darkened. "How many times has this been so far that he's been so damn drunk.."  
"At least the tenth," came a voice from the corner.  
"Well, holy shit." Boyd shook his head. "Any more and he'll be discharged! He knows what's riding on this! Tomorrow is NACA inspection time!"  
  
With a huff and a sigh, Boyd marched out of the room. The rest of the crew in the tower looked at each other uneasily. The NACA was the scientific advisory board that inspected various military projects and reported them to the US government. Run mostly by a constituency of scientists and military personnel, its main concern was that of safety and testing - and its policies were very strict. Any flaw that they noticed could spell disaster for Project Blue Gale.  
  
"Flight," Yeager's voice echoed into the room. "This is Yeager, going up to .94 Mach, stand by, over…."  
  
------------------------------  
  
Scott gave a stretch and a yawn as he put down his binoculars. Despite the fact that it was a test day, the atmosphere of the project - at least where Scott was - was relatively calm. In fact, as he had nothing to do, he was sitting in the shade of the hangar, looking up into the sky to watch Yeager as he flew.  
  
…..Damn….  
  
Scott couldn't have been happier working on Glammorus Glennis; it gave him the challenge of his life. Both he and Jack Ridley, the head of engineering for the project, had been working day and night to improve and repair the orange bird. It was difficult for Scott - he had only been working on the project for less than two months, while the others had been working on it for at least six - but nevertheless, he felt it was reward enough that he was chosen to be on the crew. He even had the feeling that Ridley was letting him work on a lot of the schematics because he was liked. He had never been happier on a test.  
  
…..Man…….Chuck is going so fast….  
  
Of course, his nature was always to be a pilot. From the first test, all he had ever wished to do was fly Glammorus Glennis just once. He knew it was impossible - as far as he was concerned, he wasn't on the pilot payroll - but he had the longing to do it. It was almost as if it had been injected into his blood to want to do it. And boy, did he want to do it so badly.  
  
It was to the point where he dreamed about it some nights, where he was in the cockpit of the XS-1. He imagined that it was an incredible experience, one that transcended normal sensations. Sometimes, he could almost feel the wind around him as the jet shot across the sky. He went faster, and the wind pushed back to try to stop him, but he always managed to go ever faster. The sensation of going to fast that time slowed down just for one man - that was something he wanted to experience, and whenever he thought of it that strange feeling of excitement he couldn't explain would come back, almost as if to coax him into doing it right that instant…..  
  
A pipe dream now, but he was determined that one day he should do it. Now, though, was the present. He took up his binoculars and gave a start.  
  
Hey…..he's coming back down already?  
  
Quickly, he was on his feet. His folding chair was kicked over, and he was running into the hot sun, where he instantly began to sweat. Running from another direction was the silhouette of Capt. Jack Ridley.  
  
"Hey! Hedgehog!" Ridley motioned to Scott as he ran up. "What's with the full gear? Its 100 degrees in the shade? Waiting for it to snow?"  
"…..Oh…..I…."  
  
Scott looked down at himself, then looked back up. Indeed, he was wearing three layers of clothing - his undershirt and pants, his pilot suit and his jacket. He turned beet red; he had his reasons.  
  
"You should strip a little so that you don't dehydrate!" Ridley turned around. "Woah! Here comes Chuck."  
  
Everyone on the field was almost instantly near the hangar as the rocket circled lower and lower towards the airstrip. As the rocket-propelled jet was new technology, the original designers had not been able to install wheels onto it; they feared the Black Betsy would explode if the wheels malfunctioned. So when it took off, it did not take off on its own, but rather was dropped from a B-29. When it landed, likewise, it landed with no wheels to belly it. Much of the repair work Scott did was to the underside, where the plan skidded across the field, as it did now upon its landing.  
  
"Damn," Scott heard some whispers as the plane bounced to a landing. "Redson not here again?"  
"Who cares?" The plane stopped. "Let's shut up and get Chuck out of there, right?"  
  
Quickly, the crew was on Glamorous Glennis. Nearby, Hoover's spotter plane landed, and a somewhat stern-looking Hoover climbed out. Without another word, he jumped out and walked off, virtually unnoticed by the crew.  
  
"Hey hey hey!" Ridley gave a laugh as Chuck's head popped out of the cockpit. "Having fun there, eh? You were soaring, man!"  
"Yeah….sure." There was a bit of disappointment in Chuck's voice. "I was having problems with the steering, though."  
"Steering?"  
"Yeah, when I got to .94…" Yeager shook his head. "Yep, the wing kept me bouncing around. I wasn't stable enough in the air, hitting lots of self-made turbulence."  
"The wing?"  
"The fin back there?" Scott pointed.  
"Yup. Yeager nodded. "Kept me unstable. Almost thought it was going to rip off."  
  
Ridley's eyebrow crimped up at this. He turned to Scott, who in turn gave him a look of confusion.  
  
"Well," Ridley gave a huff. "It looks like our work is cut out for us, ne?"  
  
-------------------------  
  
It had been a long day, long and hot for Scott for what he was wearing. He was not able to change into anything lighter until the sun practically set.  
  
"Hedgehog! There you are!" Ridley stood in front of his barracks door, carrying several rolls of paper and two Budweisers. "You ready to buckle down and clean up?"  
  
Scott gave a slow nod. After Yeager had disembarked from the XS-1, Boyd had called Ridley in to discuss what to do with the plane with the potential problem of wind shear. There were many problems that the plane was encountering as it got closer to the big 1.0, but it was the tail of the plane that was the big news at the moment, and perhaps the biggest problem if Yeager's words were to be believed. After several hours, during which Scott and several others were called in to give their analysis, Boyd decided to leave the problem up to Ridley, and Ridley gladly complied. He immediately engaged the entire ground crew in a frenzy of shouts and ideas over a table cluttered with beer, design layouts and paper, several doors down from Boyd's office, in an effort to figure out the exact problem before NACA came the next day.  
  
The result was that Ridley decided that the problem was not so much that the rear of the plane was too light, not so much as that there was nothing on the back of the plane to neutralize the weight imbalance. Nor was there anything on the back that was designed to help stabilize or deflect the wind resistance that the plane was being subjected to. If the plane went too fast without any type of mechanism to steer the wind properly on the back of the XS-1, the group decided, the tail would simply rip off the plane from all the pressure.  
  
And it was with this in mind that the whole crew then got to work. It took seven hours in the scorching sun, but with thirteen young, highly motivated men at the helm of the project, it was a godsend that it didn't take longer. Scott himself was in charge of measuring out the side of the plane, as well as the bottom and the back with the tail. With the measurements, he and several others, with Ridley at the helm, managed to create a small rudder for the plane - a small, streamlined piece of metal attached to a swinging mechanism, which would then be attached to the bottom of the tail. The theory the gang came up with was that, as the plane moved faster, so too would the rudder, which would act as a deflection to wind resistance on the tail, even as the plane went faster and faster. In this way, it was hoped that the amount of turbulence created by the plane would be greatly lessened, thus preventing the plane from literally ripping itself to shreds.  
  
"Long day, huh, Hedgehog?"  
"Long day." Scott only wore a brown t-shirt, though it was soaked with sweat. "Too long for me."  
"Now, Hedgehog," Ridley shook his head. "You know what I told you about wearing all the layers this morning, right? It'll kill you; you'll get a stroke at this rate."  
"I know, but-"  
"Hmph."  
  
Suddenly, Scott was bounced back several inches as a body suddenly bumped past him. He turned to see Bob Hoover, his body stiff towards Scott and Ridley as he walked away with a brisk, angry stride.   
  
"Excuse….me…" Hoover said nothing back to Scott as he opened the door to his room and closed it with a rude slam. "Huh. What crawled up his ass?"  
"Heh. If only you knew, Hedgehog." Ridley gave a smirk, "He's just a little angry that he's not spoiled is all. Boyd won't let him ride the plane."  
"Huh? Why not?"  
"Simple. Too dangerous to risk two pilots on experimental rocket technology." Ridley kept walking. "I don't blame Boyd. We've been having problems with Glamorous Glennis as it is, and the second plane is only for emergency purposes, like if Glennis had to be repaired, or if something happened in the air…..you know."  
  
Scott nodded as Ridley opened the door to the meeting room that the ground crew had been in that day. He knew exactly what could happen up in the air.  
  
"Well….." Ridley chuckled as he set the box down. "Looks like I've got work to do here, huh?"  
  
The room was a complete mess. Chairs were overturned, papers were scattered everywhere, beer stains stained the table, and the windows were open. There had been things like pens and pencils being cleared off for the layouts, or people had brought in food, drink and cigarettes, among other bits and pieces. These were also scattered on the floor. What made it worse was that the room was small to begin with, so that the two were quite literally stomping on a sea of trash.  
  
"My God," Scott could only look at the room with a bit of disgust. "Maybe I've been married too long, but we are pigs."  
"Muy Guad" Ridley chuckled as he imitated Scott's words. "Aw man, Hedgehog, if there was ever a moment where you sounded like where you came from…"  
"Aaw, bust my balls. You have an accent, too."  
"All right then." Two Budweisers were suddenly placed on the table by Ridley. "These are for later. I'll be right back with brooms, and afterwards the ball busting can begin."  
  
With a hop and a skip, Ridley was out the door, leaving Scott to his devices. Running his hand through his hair, he gave a deep sigh. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he walked over to the door and shut it.  
  
Better late than never…  
  
After he had shut the door, he slowly began to take off his shirt, looking around nervously towards the door as he did.  
  
….No one's coming….right? No one's coming…..  
  
He had plenty of reasons to wear so much clothing, even in the scorching California sun. Most of those reasons were easily found, if one looked hard enough. They were all over his chest area, all over his back, some on his legs, a few on his arms - particularly in the underarm elbow area where the veins were - and some were even down near his groin area. Each and every one of them was a reason.  
  
God damn….is it hot…..  
  
With no shirt on, they were all there on Scott's bare body. Thin, brownish in color, most of them ranging from four to eight inches long - these were the very ugly, almost grotesque reasons Scott could not bear showing to anyone. They were scars from another time, another place, one that disfigured his body, moving it away from its natural beauty and towards a realm of pity and near-loathing for those who may have beheld them. There were few points on his torso that has a natural flesh color to them anymore; all of them had been replaced by an almost inhuman amount of scar brown and black.  
  
But they were not just normal scars. He gave a sigh as he started to wring his shirt from all of the sweat. They were scars of devotion, scars of sacrifice. It was the bend of devotion and sacrifice, and the results of his efforts - scars included - that shook him, that moved Scott to not show the scars to anyone. Few people knew of his story; those who had tried to learn, those who eventually learned, were badly hurt in the process. It was also in that he had actually done something to hurt the people he loved in trying to protect them….  
  
"Scott?"  
  
Scott's head jolted up. He had been so engrossed in wringing his shirt, or something of that degree, that he completely forgot about Ridley. He did not hear the door open, but not that Ridley had gotten his attention, he heard the broom simply drop from the engineer's hands and onto the floor in obvious shock.  
  
"Scott? What the hell…."  
  
Scott froze for a moment. It was so stupid. He thought he wouldn't get caught. Yet Ridley was staring right at his back, his scar-beaten back, and he knew what Ridley was thinking. He knew exactly what Ridley was thinking.  
  
After all, only one type of pilot got scarring like that. A pilot - hell, any military man - like that had three words attached to them; they were three simple, yet almost disgraceful words to hear in front of a man's name.  
  
Prisoner of war.  
  
"I……"   
  
Scott groped vainly. He felt the embarrassment and shame come to his stomach, and he began to shake as he started to put his shirt back on. It had been a mistake to even think he was going to get away with baring himself without anyone finding out.  
  
"……Hedgehog?" Ridley's voice had a hint of concern in it. "…..I…..you know, I…."  
  
It was obvious Ridley was trying to find words. Scott, however, knew he wouldn't be able to find them. He had to get out of there before he broke; his hands became even shakier, though he finally got the shirt on.  
  
"Jack….." He felt his voice shake. "You know, I-"  
"-Your shirt's on backwards."  
  
Scott stopped. He turned towards Ridley, a look of horror on his face.  
  
"My shirt….?"  
"You know, Hedgehog…" Ridley's voice was calm, though it was obvious he would have not expected something like what he had seen. "…You know, I had a Marine friend named Gene, and he…..he got caught by a few Nazis down near Warsaw back in 1942. Good friend of mine. Didn't see him for almost two years." Scott watched as Ridley rubbed his nose. "Found out he'd been taken down into the ghetto and beaten up a bit, and then they……..No use keeping it in a closet, Did they stick you in a tub, Hedgehog?"  
"…..W….." The tub reference struck him. "No."  
"They stuck Gene in a tub down in some basement. Filthy, filthy tub." Ridley looked down and shook his head. Scott could almost see the disgust in his eyes. "Water was so dirty, he said, he thought it was really @#%$. But it was cold as ice. I heard they'd sometimes make the scalding, though, or they'd put salt in if they especially hated the prisoner. Gene didn't get salt, but man….it was still nothing less than hell."  
  
Slowly, surely, Scott looked down towards the beer-stained table. He saw that his hands were grabbing onto the table so tightly that they were turning purple.  
  
"…..Uh…." It was slow coming out. It was a shock that someone could be so calm when talking of such experiences. "………they…..they stuck me in a shallow hole….outside the house. Only the Germans could…..use the bathroom…..it had been raining."  
"Damn." Ridley's eyes widened at that. "What the hell did they use on you?"  
"Kitchen knives." The quaking words came out so bitterly that Scott almost felt himself spit venom. "At the end….of a toaster. They also stuck them into a……baby…..chainsaw engine…."  
"They stuck a radio in the tub." Ridley sucked his lips in at this. "I swear, the way Gene described how those men stood and laughed as he convulsed land flopped like a fish…..Damn, if they were alive, if I'd gone through it, I'd have loved to shoot every last one of them, or thrown them in that tub…..Hedgehog?"  
  
Scott couldn't take it. He flopped into a chair and put his face in his hands.  
  
"Muh…." He blubbered. "I'm….so sorry……I didn't….."  
"Hedgehog…hey there now, man." Ridley's hand was almost instantly on his shoulder. "No shame here. No shame, got that? You'd be surprised how many guys got the status. You're not alone. No shame in not saying anything; you're not an open book. Trust me," at this, Ridley gave a laugh, "If you knew how open Yeager's life was, you'd wonder why there's no minute-to-minute commentary-"  
"I took it for a Nazi."  
  
Scott wiped his eyes and gave a sniff. He took several deep breaths and shut his eyes before he continued.  
  
"I had been befriended….by a Nazi….who was a member of the Italian Resistance." Ridley looked on, slightly wide-eyed, as Scott continued. "I had been flying stag - and then I was paired up….with an RAF pilot. We were in Salerno, we hit a Luftwaffe bomber…." Scott rubbed his nose. "Miles, he died when the plane crashed. I survived and was captured."  
"Miles?"  
"…Lt. Miles Power." Scott nodded as his mouth gave a twitch. "He was my co-pilot, he did coordinates on the ship. Don't know him long, but we were good with each other. He was young, but when he and I trained together, we were almost like brothers. We knew what we were going to do before we did it. He…..I managed to bury his body before I was found. Found, then taken to Termoli."  
"And that's where you met the Nazi."  
"His name was Max Schliemann," Scott replied. "But….Max wasn't a believer of Hitler; something happened to his parents or someone, and he was against his country since day one. He relayed messages concerning certain German strategies to various couriers, who then took them to the Allied commanders in charge of the invasion of Italy. One of them got captured, and revealed that someone from Termoli was involved with getting the information. They started to center in on Max, but….he treated me well. I helped him in creating some the coding he used. We would even talk about our girlfriends and our families. We were friends. I knew….." Scott choked, but forced the tears back. "…I knew if he died, it would be a blow and the Allies would lose an informant. But a prisoner like me…I convinced them I had slipped the information through a crack in my cell."  
  
There was a moment of silence as this. In front of them, the ice that had been clinging to the glass bottles of beer had evaporated into virtually nothing, and the ringlets around them were becoming larger by the minute.  
  
"…..He live, Hedgehog?"  
"No." Scott's voice, at this point, was hoarse. "He didn't live. He died when an amphibious squad raided the town."  
"…..Damn." Ridley looked at the beer. "You ever tell anyone else?"  
"….My wife." Scott looked down again. "But…..the circumstances I told her under….they were not good."  
  
Of course, in Scott's mind that was simply an understatement. They had been terrible. Worse than terrible, even; catastrophic.   
  
"I caught her talking to my kid about it…about two years ago…"  
"None of us like talking about it, especially if its bad."  
"I was so mad at her….she was telling Sherry about how her dad was a hero….and when I caught her, I…." Scott's eyes became distant. "I totally lost control that night. I was so mad because she didn't know what had happened back in Italy; I never thought she'd understand…."  
"We all lose our tempers once in a while, Hedgehog." Ridley quietly replied. "No shame in it. You're a guy. We're all guys. You're just younger than most, is all."  
"….I never saw Mary - anyone - so…..scared." Scott sadly nodded. "I got her pretty good. She had three shiners on the left side of her face, on her cheek. Her right side was all swollen from where I'd slapped her. And I'd grabbed her hair, ripped a small chunk of it out. And I also took her by the hips….she had marks there too."  
"Hedgehog…" Even Ridley sounded shocked. "But you never did it again, did you?"  
"No." Scott shook his head forcefully. "I could never do that again. Not after that night. I was so stupid, I never knew how much I had hurt her until I had calmed down. And I freaked out. I thought that by telling her the truth, I could set it right. So I confessed everything I just told you to her the next morning. But even after that, we didn't talk for three weeks straight."  
"….Nobody's perfect, Hedgehog." Ridley stood up. "Hell, if we were perfect….I don't know what would happen. But…..did you really think I'd hate you for that stuff?"  
"….Well……" Scott hesitated. "I-"  
"I don't, you know." Ridley walked to the door. "I'm pretty sure if you told others, they wouldn't be mad. But…" Ridley took up one of the brooms. "Even if the past is past, I know some things are still nothing but pain. I've had my share. Pain is pain. And, a secret's a secret. You get what I mean?"  
  
Slowly, surely, Scott nodded. He knew he could trust Ridley. As he stood to thank Ridley, he could almost feel the weight of his embarrassment roll off of his shoulders. He actually smiled and nodded.  
  
"Sure, Jack."  
"Right then!" Ridley tossed the other broom to Scott. "And while we're at it, we'll need some washcloths….we don't want the NACA to know what we really do here, eh?"  
  
-----------------------  
  
The meeting with the NACA the next day went off without a hitch. They had come into the hangar, inspected the plane, then went in with Boyd to talk about the new rudder-like part, which they approved quickly. Even Redson was there - though, in some minds, he still looked hung over from his previous binge. He was, as a result, given an unusually harsh warning by Boyd after the NACA inspectors had left.  
  
As for Scott, he and Ridley were walking back to the hangar, talking and laughing. Scott felt much more at ease with Ridley, and it wasn't just because Ridley knew and accepted his secret, though this was a factor. Rather, it was because Ridley was someone who was good with other men, someone who could relate. He could cheer anyone up, and he was a friend of friends. Around someone like that, Scott knew he was in good company.  
  
"So, what now, Hedgehog?" Ridley opened the door to the hangar. "You want to go get drunk or something?"  
"Naah, not yet," Scott chuckled as he walked in. "I still have some things I need to do before the weekend."  
"You gonna write your wife?"  
"I'd love to call her." Scott gave a checking eye towards Glamorous Glennis as he went for the tool shelf. "God, do people put things away?"  
"That was NACA's fault." Ridley gave another chuckle as he picked up a hammer. "Well, let's clean…..up?"  
  
The chuckle in Ridley's voice suddenly died. Scott put the tool shelf back in, looking towards him inquisitively.  
  
"Jack, you ok? What…?"  
  
Ridley was staring down towards the bottom of the plane. Scott looked down as well, his mouth dropping as he did.  
  
"…..Shit….."  
  
Almost instantly, Scott was on the ground, crawling under. His front almost slipped into the blue puddle that came from the plane; looking up, he gave a shout.  
  
"HOLY..!!"  
  
Under the belly of the plane here the transmission tank lay, there were nails and screws, the largest kind that the hangar stocked, jammed up though the metal. Most of the nails were an inch long; the screws, several millimeters. There were too many to count, at least at the moment. And they were all soaked, all steadily dripping blue transmission fluid onto the ground.  
  
"Jack…." Scott's voice squeaked as he slid backwards on his stomach. "Jack, get me a hammer."  
"I got one. What the hell's going on?"  
"Nails and screws. All over. Right up into the transmission tank."  
"Oh my God." If Scott had looked at Ridley as he was getting the undercarriage cart, he would have seen that he was sheet white. "You're not-"  
"We have to." Scott took up a towel and grabbed the hammer from Ridley. "I have to. There's no time!"  
  
With that, he sat down on the carriage, took a deep breath, mumbled a prayer or two, then stuck the towel over his face. Then he went in.  
  
------------------------  
  
"……Transmission fluid?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"How in God's name…?"  
"Someone drove these up into the transmission tank." A bag of over one hundred nails and screws were dropped onto Boyd's desk as Ridley spoke. "We lost at least half of the fluid in the tank because of it, sir. We don't know who did it, or why… all we can figure is that it must have happened during the meeting, after the NACA came into the hangar."  
  
Boyd frowned; it was obvious to Ridley that he was getting angry. He had worked with the colonel at Wright-Patterson long enough to know how well Boyd tolerated certain things. Insubordination, government feet dragging, nosy reporters and laziness were among the things that had ever been tolerated by him. Yet even with how long they had worked together, Ridley had never seen Boyd react to outright sabotage. He knew he was about to now.  
  
"Who got these out?"  
"Capt. Scott Garnet, sir." Ridley looked uneasily around. "He took every precaution he could, but-"  
  
Ridley was suddenly interrupted in his talk by the opening of the office door behind him. In came Scott, his clothing soaked in blue and reeking of the stench of gas. A dirty white towel was wrapped around his face.  
  
"Sir!" His muffled voice came from under the towel as he saluted with a blood red hand. "Sir, the transmission fluid almost leaked onto the-"  
"Captain!" Boyd walked over to Scott. "You took out these nails?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"Why do you have your face covered, captain?"  
"Sir, I was trying my best to ensure that the fluid didn't touch me, sir." Scott's voice was somewhat shaky. "I'm afraid I had only limited luck."  
  
Almost instantly, the towel was whisked off of his face by the colonel. The colonel's eyes widened at the appearance of Scott. His face was turned red by the fluid, as it had still soaked through and burnt parts of his face and ears. What was worse was his hair; it was soaked to the scalp, and the look on Scott's face showed that he was in a lot of pain from the liquid seeping into his hair and into his pores.  
  
"In God's name…!!"  
"The transmission on Glamorous Glennis is destroyed, sir." Ridley did not look at the colonel. "There's too many holes to patch up. It won't fly; the Black Betsy will be exposed to the fluid in mid-air and if the two mix-"  
"I know what would have happened, Captain."  
  
Both men could almost hear the restraint Boyd was placing on himself. He was downright pissed, and he spoke through clenched teeth.  
  
"Its our asses, men." He glared at the two of them. "I will not tolerate sabotage. This will not forgotten, do you understand? Now we have to take Glennis down to Pendleton for repairs. Do you know what Pendleton is?"  
"Sir, it-"  
"I DID NOT ASK FOR AN ANSWER!"  
  
The angry shout took the two officers by surprise, and they both could only stand where they were as Boyd's anger was taken out on them. Scott could feel himself tremble as he was shot down.  
  
"I….did not ask for an answer." Boyd pointed to Scott. "I know what it is. It's a goddamn Marine base three hours away. A repair shop for the other branches. And do you know what they'll say when I tell them I'm giving them a Army Air Force sanctioned rocket-propelled jet to repair? They'll call me crazy. They'll laugh me off the phone! But you know what? I guess we don't have much of a choice now, do we?" Ridley and Scott didn't take their eyes off of the colonel as he continued. "Because someone is trying to destroy this project. Well, I will not stand for it!!" He slammed his hand down on the desk, startling the two men once more. "Ridley, I want you to call the crew up, and I want you to take both of those XS-1s out of that hangar, right now!"  
"Yes, sir-"  
"And," Boyd looked them both dead in the eye. "When I find out which one of these assholes did this, they'll be strung up so quick their balls will experience whiplash."  
"Yes-"  
"And DON'T give me 'yes, sirs!" Boyd walked to the door. "Just DO IT!"  
  
Without another word, he walked out of the room and slammed the door.  
  
------------------------

*SPLAAAAASH*

  
  
The oxygen was suddenly forced out of Scott's lungs as the water hit his scar-infested body. The water went into his hair, like tiny knives, and only washed the blue goo down into his eyes and ears. He could barely hold back the screams as the pain was getting worse by the minute.  
  
Help me…. Scott slid to the floor, slowly getting into a fetal position, as if his instincts thought that would make the pain go away. Red hot…  
  
He had heard about what things like battery acid, ammonia and gas could do just on contact with a person's skin. The reality was worse, especially as the goo started to run down the rest of his body. He began to scream and cry; the pain was nothing like he had ever felt before. It was stupid what he had done, nothing but a stupid blunder. He knew he should have waited, yet he didn't. He felt a strange obligation to get the nails out. Now, of course, he was paying big time, and he had foolishly waited until nightfall to wash himself off. Now several clumps of his hair were falling to the bottom of the stall.  
  
"Gaaaaaaaaah………nrrrrrrgh….."  
  
Scott grit his teeth and tried again to bear; the pain in his head from the fluid that had gotten under his skin was also getting worse by every passing moment. He couldn't shower; when he tried, all he had done was scream in pain as each tiny droplet of water had landed on him, burning him. He couldn't touch it, couldn't put anything on it, couldn't do anything.  
  
It burns………. Scott could not stop the tears, the infantile tears, as they ran. All around him, a mixture of blue fluid and dark red blood began to fill the shower. It burns like fire……  
  
Thoughts of the flames sprang into his mind. There had been another time in his life, several years before, when he could think of flames. It had been long before the creation of Muroe; long before he had returned from the war. It had been a distant September night, distant, halfway around the world; he had a passenger named Miles with him.  
  
Scott shut he eyes tightly at the comparison. He could almost see the flames in front of him on the control board, could almost see the smoke of the plane mingle with the coastal fog, could almost see the shocked face of the German pilot just before he exploded into flames. Scott did not actually remember crashing; all he remembered were flames, and screams from behind him as flames engulfed the plane. He should have died then; not for pity, not for self-blame, but from the flames. They were there again, the sound of cracking and snapping, the cries of his comrade, the smell of burning wood…..  
  
……Wood?  
  
The dim hallucination suddenly faded in front of Scott, replaced by the stronger smell and heat of reality. The pain was momentarily forgotten as his eyes widened from confusion. He felt his nose hairs twitch from the powerful smell, and he slowly tried to bring his bloody, naked, dizzy body up to the window. It was wood, doused with some gasoline; it was older wood from the seeming mold smell that accompanied it. Who was lighting a fire with that type of wood?  
  
Then it hit him.   
  
He didn't even have to look - it lit up the stall - but he did anyway. Right in front of his view from the window was the hangar where, just mere hours before, the XS-1s had been sitting. Now, the flames coming from the collapsing building leaped up into the night sky, and the smoke covered the stars in the heavens.  
  
Oh my God… Fear pierced Scott's chest. Oh my god……Oh my god….  
  
He turned to get out of the shower. He needed to get out and help the men he could see vainly carrying water out to douse the fire. He was a part of the team; it was his duty.  
  
The sudden turn of his head spoke otherwise. The sudden jerked movement made the pain come back; the strong smell began to nauseate him. He gave another scream from the new spike of pain that came from every inch of his body touched by the fluid; the wind of movement simply burned.  
  
Must…..fight….. The blood from his head, from his badly damaged, burn scalp, began to come down into his eyes. Must…..help……  
  
It was no use. He lost his balance, and he fell forward quickly. For a moment, the burning wind around him seemed to almost try to stop him from landing; like wind resistance, the sonic wind, it threatened to tear him apart, to rip his scalp and then his brains, followed by the rest of his body. His eyes rolled up to the back of his head when the instant flashed; he hit ceramic and all went black.  
  
------------------------  
  
"Hedgehog?!?"  
  
Ridley and Yeager burst into the stall several minutes later. They were covered in ash and sweat, and both had to catch their breaths as they came in. Neither noticed Scott's clothing crumpled behind the door.  
  
"Shit, where is he?!" Yeager looked around. "No sign of him. Somehow this makes me wonder if he may have sta-"  
  
He almost instantly stopped upon stepping into a puddle of pink water that. His eyes quickly scanned up to the origin - a stall with a shower that was still running on full blast. The water from the nozzle was clear.  
  
"Sweet Jesus…"  
  
Under the nozzle was another story. The water was hitting a large, peach-colored mound, with splotches of red covering it and mixing with the water. The water coursed off of the mound and onto its limp, outstretched arms, flooding onto the floor. On the head of the mound was a mixture of dark red, a tiny bit of brown, but most of all, blue fluid. Worst of all, the mound was not moving.  
  
"SCOTT!!!!"  



	9. VII

VII

  
  
  
  
  


"Ok……"  
  
Meg winced as a large black man suddenly elbowed her and cut in front of her. She could only growl as he walked past her.  
  
"…Jerk."  
  
It was 1:00, fifteen minutes until her meeting with General Chuck Yeager, the American hero primed to become the oldest supersonic flyer in the world on this day at the age of 64, along with being the first forty years ago to the date. Of course, having been anti-war since Vietnam - she marched in several different protests, including the Million Man March of 1964 where she was close enough to hear the Rev. Martin Luther King speak; she was only 10 at the time - she wasn't all that keen on meeting Chuck Yeager in the middle of a hot sunny day - in the middle of a desert, no less.  
  
"Where the hell is the press booth?" Meg shook her head angrily as she mumbled. "It said on the briefing I'm supposed to go to Line C. There is no Line C here. George, you had better not have screwed me over…yet again…."  
  
Next to her, Joan and Naoto were talking in low voices in Japanese. Though Meg suspected it was about her, something in their tone, including the fact that Joan was pointing to the planes in the distant field, made it apparent that she was not the subject of their conversation.  
  
"….Excuse me." Meg finally found a handsome Air Force sergeant walking past her. She got his arm. "Where's line C for the reporters?"  
"Ma'am?"  
"I'm a reporter." Meg searched her new jacket, presenting her press card to him. "There's a Line C?"  
"Oh…" The sergeant looked over towards the field. "There will be an announcement in several minutes concerning that. Those who are with proper Associated Press and Reutger Network identifications will be allowed to interview the general for three minutes regarding various subjects."  
"…..Thanks."  
  
Meg gave the sergeant a look as he left; in the same vein she cursed the heat. Yet it was only her face that felt the afternoon heat. For some reason, the skin under her jacket felt temperate; she felt comfortable, even safe, wearing it still. She still could not understand why this was so, either way; it was an old jacket she impulsively bought on a whim. Yet she somehow felt like she needed it for reasons she had yet to learn.  
  
"The winds are pickin' up today!"   
"Yuppers."  
  
Meg's ears picked up at that. She looked around towards several senior citizens behind her. They wore jackets similar in style to the one she wore, though theirs had many different military insignias on them. All of them, however, were Air Force veterans, as their hats had squadron decal, followed by a suitable nickname and the squadron's famous battles. Judging from their seeming physical appearances, they all seemed to be WWII and Korean War veterans as well.  
  
"Yup." One of them nodded. "Its definitely the 14th. It always happens on October 14th. The stronger winds are starting to pick up from over the eastern hills. It'll pick up even more by the time they start flying the jets."  
  
Something about this mindless chatter suddenly interested Meg for no particular reason she could truly think of. Quietly, she began to slowly eavesdrop on the old men, wondering if they would say anymore on it. Of course, being old men, she knew they would.  
  
"You think he's here?"  
"Far as I can tell," the old man, who had an eyepatch on his left side, chuckled. "He would never miss it for the world if we all know him."  
"Of course not."  
"You think he'll be on the roof of the hangar this time?" One of them was grinning at this. "I saw him with my own eyes on the hangar roof back in '54 when I was up there cleanin' the gutter as a private! I was right there next to him, and he didn't even notice me! And if I had a camera-"  
"You always say that, John!"  
"Hey, but any of you buckaroos claim you saw his profile better than me? Nuh uh, no siree!"  
"…Hmm?"  
  
Suddenly, Meg felt eyes on her. She looked up to see that one of the men - fat, puffy, and his hair slicked back with oil under his cap - was looking at her.   
  
"Can we help you, ma'am?"  
"Um…" Meg saw everyone looking at her at the question. She poised herself. "I'm just wondering what you may have been talking about."  
"Well, who're you?  
"My name is Margaret Rye." She crossed her arms. "I'm a reporter for…."  
  
The general consensus of the group towards her was a sudden, subtle suspicion, and Meg almost regretted telling them her true profession. After all, old men who had been in the military had long memories in regards to reporters (unlike her, who did not feel the past had bearing on present situations) - all the media itself for that matter, because the media, mainly anti-war at most times in the present (like herself), caused problems.   
  
It was the media, after all, who created the myth of the all-American heroes as they came home from the European and Pacific theaters - all of the young Joes and Johnnys, strapping in their uniforms, returning from a drafted war against the evils. Hitler, Mussolini, the Japs - their war was glamorized by the papers, by the movies. Even the grittier films had some dashing hero, or some gorgeous paragon whom saved the day, or died valiantly in the struggle to save the world. The newsreels they showed, too, promoted the American spirit the lads showed, how they freed their conquered brethren from the Nazi war machine, smiling as they went along.   
  
This was forty years ago, and the media still sometimes showed it that way - that the Second World War was the ultimate battle against evil, a grand story to make into a movie, one to passed down through the ages. But everyone knew that the war wasn't as glamorous or as glorious as the press said. It was gruesome, the fatalities and lives destroyed were unparalleled by anything else in human history save the bubonic plague - and there were things that the government didn't want people to know, and the media complied.   
  
Death, destruction, untold horrors of inhumanity at its most vicious; millions died, and many saw torture on top of the sights which they were forced to endure. Men who had bonded together in their groups saw their comrades die with their own eyes. All of them killed at least one person on their tours of duty.   
  
Yet the men who came home came home to a heroes' welcome, so overwhelmed by how they had been shown in the media that the violent shift back to normalcy nearly killed some of them. They could not concentrate on their lives when they hadn't been able to deal with what they had seen during their years out of the country. But the government - aided by the media - strongly stressed that the men could never talk of their war experiences, to put them behind and suppress them forever, because they didn't want people to know how terrible the war truly was. At least, they would say, put the memories off until you had children. Many men cracked, many managed to keep their thoughts to themselves, but to work their frustration and sadness in other ways. It was only recently that some veterans had started to really talk to the media, and when they talked, they still could not handle it, and the story that the papers presented was still skewed.  
  
It was this legacy of uneasiness towards the press - they who helped to complicate the problems of some of their battalion brethren returning home all that time ago - that Meg suddenly felt thrown towards her. For this, she figured she knew why they were suspicious, and knew she had to reassure them that prying their war memories was the last thing on her mind (since, horrible as it would seem to some, she could care less about that).  
  
"I was only wondering who you were talking about. I'm not on duty." She looked at each of the veterans uneasily, showing her pockets. She had been careful to put her audio recorder in her purse to avoid it getting stolen, and she knew that her badge was in her jacket pocket. For those precautions, she was secretly thankful. "I don't care about anything but that. If its…..well……then I apologize for-"  
"Oh!" The leader of them, the one whom Meg had first heard, shook his head and laughed. "Oh, no, no one we knew like that. Just a little local thing here in these parts. Everyone knows about it, so I assume you're out of town?"  
"….Yes…."  
"Oh, oh." The other veterans began to laugh. "Its nothin' more than a little ghost story, an urban legend."  
"It's something us airmen and field men remember back in our days during the wars."  
"What is it? A ghost?"  
"The Hedgehog."  
"…The…."  
  
Meg suddenly felt another sensation at the word 'hedgehog'. Again, it felt connected to the jacket she wore, and she couldn't help but look shocked for a moment.  
  
"Oh, its connected to this very airfield and this very occasion, young lady." The men, eager to tell her the story, did not notice her expression. "When they were working on the X-1 back in the 40's, there were several injuries, and even a death."  
"Really?" Meg was, for the first time this whole trip, sincerely surprised. "I didn't know that."  
"Yup, one of the few things the press doesn't know about." Meg felt herself redden a little as the old men laughed. "No one outside top Army Air Force brass ever knew for a long time there had been problems with the project. Lots of parts are still top-secret to this day, and everything that the American public knows is only the positive stuff and only the least of the problems. Hell, I think even Yeager met with some security problems when he went to publish a book…..damn, what was it called, Mike?"  
"The Right Stuff, John. I think."  
"That one was about NASA, you idiots."  
"Right, right. Whatever." The man grinned sheepishly. "But everyone who worked on Blue Gale knew the truth."  
"Blue Gale?"  
"Code name for the project." The man with the eyepatch looked at Meg. "There was one thing in particular that got a few people wondering. In some of the transcripts, there's a discrepancy about the death."  
"A discrepancy?"  
"Yup. The death was placed on September 15, 1947, during a hangar fire." At this, his voice lowered. "But the death wasn't even reported until almost November. And according to an Air Force buddy of the deceased who had attended the funeral, there were no remains to bury. Not a speck of ash to the pilot's name. It was as if his body had disappeared - and that was on the official report, that they lost the body." The leader of the veterans rubbed his nose. "Sounds too careless if you ask me, even for a division of the armed forces still in its infancy."  
"….Really, now."  
  
At this point, Joan, who had been talking to Naoto in Japanese, noticed Meg talking to the old men. She strained to listen while keeping the impression that she herself was not eavesdropping.  
  
"Unusual." The fat veteran nodded. "Oh, a lot of theories abounded, everything from the Roswell aliens kidnapping him to the government just downright killing him for some unknown reason. But the most compelling and most obvious theory was none of those."  
"The most compelling?"  
"It involves…."  
  
At this, the veterans looked around uneasily. It was Meg's turn to stare at them, not sure of what they would say. Whatever they said, she knew, would at the least be a little bit interesting in relation to the boring (and sometimes confusing) day she was having.  
  
"…..Well…." Finally, the fat veteran spoke, his voice going lower in volume than ever. "….Chuck wasn't the first one to break the sound barrier."  
"….What?!"  
  
Meg almost shouted this in surprise. It was not what she would have expected, and under most circumstances she would have just laughed it off as an attempt to discredit Chuck Yeager's achievements (not that she wasn't open to the idea of doing that on her own). However, whatever feeling was pervading her to be nice to Joan and Naoto today, whatever made her feel safe within the jacket, also caused her to somehow have little doubt of what the veterans were saying, and she almost huddled in her new jacket.  
  
"There was another person who did it several hours before him." The veterans' voice was barely above a whisper. "Supposedly, this guy went up and broke the sound barrier…..but his plane blew up. They only found pieces of the plane; his body was incinerated beyond salvation."  
"…..No way….." This was from Joan, whom the veterans did not hear or see behind Meg.  
"They didn't want the project to go bust, so they let Chuck go up and take the glory. But while the original supersonic pilot died, his spirit lives on. His ghost, changed by his anger over being stiffed of his rightful fame, lets everyone know who really did it, every time the 14th of October comes around here at Edwards." The veterans' voice went back to normal volume after this. "Sometimes he's at the hangar, sometimes he's at the tower, sometimes even in the cockpit of a plane or on the runway, right in the way of a plane. He's definitely a prankster."  
"Changed? Changed how?"  
"How else? He became a beast."  
"That's right, little missy. A poltergiest!"  
"Aaah, shut yer mouth, Ben." The fat veteran laughed. "You know jack @#%$ about ghosts."  
"Aah, but I saw him too! I tried to catch him-"  
"I…see…." Somehow, such a primal apparition didn't click with Meg, as she had always imagined ghosts as having white sheets over them as children would, or at least looking human. "Who was this pilot, or is that a secret as well?"  
"…Welp…" The veterans looked at one another, though they didn't look as if it was such a secret. "No one knows his real name, but we all know his pet name. It's the name that the ground crewman, who told us about him after the first sighting, knew him as."  
"And that is….?"  
"Hedgehog."  
  
Meg's heart stopped at that. Something about the word came back to her; she felt her skin grow clammy at the thought of what implications it could have for her.  
  
"Oh! There we go." The group of veterans started to walk. "About time this damn line started moving again…."  
  
Meg also saw the line start to move, and when they moved the veterans went back to their mindless talking. Only, it didn't seem so mindless now to Meg; something about the word "hedgehog" as applied to a person's name made her blood curl in a way she would have never thought possible. For a few minutes, she did not get why it made her feel this way.  
  
Then, somehow, it hit her.  
  
….The jacket.  
  
She instantly took it off and swung it to the back. The strange blue decal was there, as well as the word "SONIC" under it, also blue. For the first time, her mind truly began to wonder about it. And she as only beginning to understand what she had just learned.  
  
"….Scott Garnet."  
"…..What?"  
  
Meg looked at Joan, her eyes wide. Joan and Naoto, in return, looked shocked and astonished as well, though Naoto looked a little more confused. She looked up from the jacket to Meg's shocked face, then back at the jacket.   
  
"….Oh my god…."  
"What…?"  
"Captain Scott Garnet." An astonished smile came upon Joan's face. "Mary Garnet's husband. That was his nickname. Hedgehog."  
"His…."  
  
Meg looked down at the jacket, then back up at the Japanese woman. All the information she was getting, which should have been pointless and forgettable to Meg under normal circumstances, were beginning to confound her, even excite her, to entice her to learn more. The lure seemed so simple, the story too good to be true.   
  
Yet, if it is true….  
  
"ATTENTION, ALL PRESS CARD HOLDERS." The speakers around the field suddenly crackled to life. "PLEASE REPORT TO THE NORTHEAST POINT OF THE FIELD FOR YOUR INTERVIEWS WITH GENERAL YEAGER AT THE PRESS BOOTH. AGAIN-"  
"That's your cue." Meg felt Joan nudge her. "Good luck, I guess….."  
"……Thank you……"  
  
Meg's voice was as dazed as her thoughts. She almost walked mindlessly out of the line and around the parking lot. She had a long bit to walk, but she didn't care at the moment.  
  
A puzzle.  
  
It had all started the moment she had gotten off the plane, but she realized that the coincidences, as too good to be true as they seemed, were far too connected for any real reporter to ignore. A puzzle was beginning to form in front of her, right in her face. From the jacket, to Joan to the old men; all morning, pieces had been fitting in snugly with some big picture. Yet she had had no clue of it. She didn't know she was supposed to be solving anything.  
  
Yet, as she zipped her new jacket up, she realized. Somehow, she was supposed to solve something here. Something big. Something very big. Something so big, that it could change the very course of history as people knew it - hell, as she knew it.  
  
Thank you, George…. she could almost feel the irony cut through her throat as she finally found the small stream of reporters gathered around the northeast gate of the field. I guess this wasn't such a dud story after all…..  
  
  


  
  



	10. VIII

****

VIII

  
  
  
  
_September 30, 1947_  
  
If Muroe Air Force Base could be considered the most desolate place on the face of the planet, then Los Angeles was almost overcrowded in comparison.  
  
"Excuse me…..pardon me….."  
  
As Scott Garnet walked through the crowds of people, he could almost feel their stares hitting him as he went passed. Some, he knew, were staring at him because of his formal brown Army uniform and hat, and the fact that he was wearing it on such a hot day. Most, however, were staring at something else on his person; that something happened to be on top of his head, _under_ his hat.  
  
"Aah, yes, Los Angeles…" Behind him, he heard Chuck Yeager, who had driven him to the Los Angeles airport. Then came the pat on his back. "Say, you don't think you're family'll recognize you with your new hair, will they?"  
  
Scott could only shake his head at the question. His head had been severely burnt by the transmission fluid; if one looked close enough, one could see the red, peeling scalp that he had to endure. After he had collapsed the night of the hangar fire (which, to everyone's relief, had not damaged any of the planes, as they had been transferred to Pendleton several hours before for inspection), he found himself in a doctor's office in a nearby town. The doctor was hovering over him, as was Boyd, who had his arms crossed.  
  
_"Well…" The doctor shook his head. "There's little I can do at the moment. As long as he didn't swallow any, that's good. But unfortunately his hair and scalp have already absorbed the liquid toxins, so sadly there's little I can do for it. All I can say is that he should cover his hair when its high noon - it will decrease molting - and to just wait for new hair to grow. And to be careful when he washes his hair; it will be painful if he's not gentle."_   
  
Warnings taken into consideration, it was nevertheless an incredibly painful experience to endure. Because the fluid got into his pores, it would sometimes react to the water, so it had been agony to take showers for a week and a half after the accident. It wasn't so bad anymore, but Boyd still made him wear a hat anytime he was outside in the sun. And his scalp still peeled.  
  
If that weren't enough, to add insult to injury, his hair was now bright blue. It had been turned so from being bleached by the fluid. It was this that called attention to him by the airport civilians far more than his Air Force rank and attire. Even though he wore his cap, and it hid most of the hair, there was still plenty to see, and, considering that he was not just of the military but a ranking officer, this got reactions. He got every type of emotional look he could imagine; from quizzical to amused smirks, to confused and even shocked glares of disgust and contempt.  
  
"You want me to wait here?" Chuck crossed his arms as the two approached the terminal. "Or will you spare me the suspense of meeting your family, Hedgehog?"  
"Waiting here sounds good to me." Scott nodded. "Besides which, I'm not sure what's going to happen."  
"All right, then." Chuck sat down at a seat facing a window. "I'll just wait here then. You go and get them, right?"  
"Right."   
  
Nodding, Scott walked off almost mindlessly, keeping tabs on the terminal he was in, as well as the gates. Finally, he spotted the area of gates he was supposed to go to.  
  
_….Gate 25…._  
  
He only needed to walk several yards; he almost absent-mindedly passed the desk that guarded the gate. He managed to catch himself when he saw Gate 26 in front of him, and he looked behind him towards the correct gate.   
  
"Ah." He went to the desk, where a male receptionist stood, counting money. "Excuse me."  
"Yes, sir?"  
"Can you tell me when the flight from New York comes in?"  
"La Guardia Airport?"   
"…Yes. I think that's the right one."  
"Why, its landing right now, I believe." The receptionist pointed out of the window. It just needs to come to the gate, that's all. That'll be several minutes."  
"…Thank you."   
  
Checking his watch, Scott sat down in a chair facing a set of large windows, crossing his legs. There was plenty to see outside; the planes starting to come into the airport; the Pacific Ocean in the distance on his right. The slightly more distant, sprawling city of Los Angeles lay to his left, basking in the sun. Beyond that, relatively large mountains which buffered the green city from the Mojave Desert which lay some distance beyond it; for some reason, the name of the range which the mountains were a part of escaped Scott's memory. They reminded him of a mini version of the Italian Alps, only not as jagged and without snow. And beyond it, of course, Switzerland would have been there. He had flown over both.  
  
_Hmm….._  
  
Taking his mind back to the present, Scott began to think of the many possibilities that the next several days could bring. He just hoped they would be restful, and nothing work related would get in the way whatsoever. After two weeks of stressful preparation, he had finally flown as spotter for Chuck, who was flying the backup XS-1 for the time being. Nevertheless, Scott recorded a speed of .95 Mach for the plane, and there was another celebration in Pancho Barnes and another appearance of Glennis Yeager.   
  
What had happened, of course, is that almost immediately after the hangar fire, Scott had been appointed the secondary pilot. Hoover had been injured during the fire, sustaining several very deep burns. Although he was initially suspected as a suspect (since it was supposed he was disgruntled with being second fiddle to Yeager), Hoover was later ruled out because he had several alibis - Boyd included - who had been with him at Pancho Barnes that night. In fact, Hoover had run out to inspect when the flames had caught everyone's attention and was the most surprised of them all, breaking into a cold run for the burning building.   
  
As for Scott's appointment, it was suggested by Ridley. They needed a name on the paper, and given that Scott was a test pilot to begin with as well as a mechanic, everyone eventually approved his appointment. It was obvious that Scott had the most experience on the payroll next to Yeager, Anderson and Ridley. Ridley was firmly planted as the chief engineer of the project, and Anderson was the only person qualified to fly the B-29, so it left Scott to pick up where Hoover left off on top of helping the ground crew. It was not much more work - the spotter plane he flew was like any other plane he flew, so it was nothing new to him, at least.  
  
It was also obvious to everyone at this point that, barring sabotage, the XS-1 could hopefully break the sound barrier by the end of October, perhaps in just two to three weeks. To that end, Colonel Boyd had been fully determined that no sabotage would occur again on his watch. He took many precautions, such as asking for several supervisors from other airfields to look over any and all repair work done to the remaining plane and having an all-night guard every night. Only officers were allowed to do guard duty; as such Scott, Chuck, Ridley, Redson, Swindell, Anderson and even Boyd had already had at least one night to which they had to stand guard of a new, quickly built makeshift hangar armed with a pistol and a sniper rifle. If anyone approached the hangar, they were instructed, and did not respond properly to them or started to run away, they were to shoot to injure and arrest them. And in the morning, Boyd also had another officer, separate from the person who had guarded, check to ensure that the guard had not done anything slick during the night.  
  
  
_"I think that it would be especially unforgivable," Boyd had said at the meeting outlining the new precautions, "if one of you officers happened to be the real culprit of any or all of these actions that have been hindering the mission. As it pains me to say it, you must be wary of one another as well as those of lower rank; the saboteur could be anyone on this project. So watch your back."  
"Indeed," Redson, looking upset, had spoken up after Boyd left the room. "And speaking of backs, I can assure that whomever's responsible will be getting my Bowie knife in their back when I find them. So Hoover'd better watch himself."  
"Don't be so ridiculous, Redson." Ridley had shaken his head. "We can't ascertain who did all this; there's no evidence to point to anyone, and we all know Hoover has enough to show he wasn't the guy."  
"I still think it was him. He had the best motive."  
"Anyone could have done it."  
"Ah well." Redson had shaken his head. "Still, I wonder why the colonel mentioned us officers. You think he suspects any of us?"  
"Its really all up in the air," Scott had finally said. "But….wouldn't the precautions defeat the purpose of catching the saboteur? And the rapport within the team could deteriorate."  
"At best, we'll catch him, Hedgehog." Ridley had then pat Scott on the shoulder. "At worst, we'll stave off another sabotage attempt. That's the hope."_  
  
  
And so, for the past several weeks, many rumors had circulated as to the possible identity of the saboteur. Many on the team still secretly pointed to Hoover, for the fact that he had not been allowed to simulate. However, everyone was seen as suspicious, and several times during conversations with mechanics, Scott knew when people were wondering if he would not have been insidious enough to do it. They would give him subtle looks, or drop hints concerning nails and transmissions. After all, Scott was the one who "fixed" Glamorous Glennis, and he was bumped up to secondary after Hoover was injured in the fire; secondary gave Scott more to do, gave him more prestige on Blue Gale.   
  
Of course, even Boyd was seen as the possible saboteur, so Scott knew he wasn't alone. And judging by many of Boyd's actions dealing with the precautions, he couldn't help but wonder if Boyd perhaps had an idea of whom the responsible party really was.  
  
_……Ah well._  
  
Scott pushed all of this behind him as well for the moment, taking his cap off and running his fingers through his blue hair. He was in Los Angeles, about to spend some time with his family. He knew that Sherry would be excited to see him, and that Mary would be interested in perhaps going out and enjoying some time with him. He himself was looking forward to taking them both out star sighting, and touring the studios-  
  
"Hedgehog!"   
  
Scott's thoughts were interrupted by the shout. Almost instantly, he was on his feet, looking towards the gate door. His cap fell out of his hands.  
  
"Mary…!!!!"  
  
At that, Mary came out of the gate, dressed in a dark brown tweed jacket and black slacks. Giving a cry of surprise, she ran over to Scott, nearly bowling him over with a powerful hug. Almost instantly, her lips were on his, as if ready to suck his head up into lipstick oblivion.  
  
"Oh, wow!" Scott chuckled as he finally caught his balance. His face was covered with light pink lipstick marks. "You must be glad to see me, huh?"  
"Ha." Mary looked up at his face. "I suppose so, Hedg…..what in…?!?!?"  
"Oh," Scott knew what Mary was looking at when her eyes widened. "I guess you noticed something different about me?"  
"Oh my _God_, Hedgehog!" Mary started laughing as she fingered his hair. "What in Roosevelt's name have you done to your _hair!_"  
"Heh." Scott couldn't help but smile. He gave Mary a kiss on her cheek. "A bit of an accident. No harm done."  
"How strange." Mary beamed. "Now your hair looks like that of a _blue_ hedgehog!"  
"You could only wish there was such a thing."  
"DADDY!"  
  
Scott turned from Mary for a moment, catching sight of his daughter tromping off towards him in a (slightly dirtied) flowered Sunday dress and green petticoat. Laughing, Scott took a step back as Sherry hugged his leg.  
  
"Daaaaddy!" She looked up at him and giggled. "Mommy's making me wear this ugly dress!"  
"Sherry!" Mary's voice was suddenly stern. "I told you, that is a beautiful dress! Or at least it was until she started playing with the dirt in the yard. Oooh, its hot here…"  
"Aww," Scott kissed Mary on the other cheek. "What's a dress, anyways?"  
"Scott Johnson Garnet!" Mary's gaze instantly became stern as she looked back at Scott. "Spendthrift. I spent 10 dollars on it out in the Utica Christian store so that she'd have something nice to wear."  
"You really didn't have to, Mary." Scott was still grinning.  
"Well, I wanted her to be presentable in front of her father's co-workers."  
"Not that my co-workers give a damn about what a woman looks like." Scott smiled. "They like their women any way they can _ge_-"  
"SCOTT!"   
  
Mary's voice became sharp, and Scott knew he had overstepped his boundaries. Nevertheless, he picked her up around the waist and kissed again.  
  
"Sco-_oooot_!" Mary squeaked in anger.  
"Now, now, Mary Amy Garnet...." Grinning from ear to ear, Scott began to hoist her onto her shoulder. "Don't make me spank you."  
"Daddy?" Sherry's eyes widened. "You spank _Mommy_?!"  
"Oooh, you jerk!" Mary's anger was abating, judging by her bursting into giggles. "Not in front of Sherry, you sick fool!"  
"Better now than never……"  
"What _are_ you doing?"  
  
The playfulness in Scott's voice slowly trailed off at the sound of the gruff, hacking voice. His eyes turned up towards the figure, and his smile vanished.  
  
"…..Dad."  
  
Scott's father frowned in return. He looked and sounded a lot sicker than Scott remembered him being. He was definitely thinner, thin and pale like a corpse. Looking at Mary, than at Scott, he gave another cough.  
  
"What the hell's with this now?"  
"…Nothing." Slowly, stiffly, Scott put Mary down. "Nothing at all, pops."  
"Good." Scott's father wiped his brow. "The last thing you need in this God-forsaken place is another @#%$ show of hanky-panky. By _my_ son, no less."  
"….Nice to see you too." Scott turned to Mary and too k her hand, instantly changing the subject. "So, how was your flight?"  
"A…" Scott could tell that Mary sensed the hostility. "A little bumpy, but nothing that we couldn't handle. We stayed the night at Jake's house."  
"Jake?" Scott was pleasantly surprised. "Your brother Jake? Sounds nice, eh?"  
"Ah, he's getting along well." Mary nodded. "He's pretty jealous that you're out here, he says. It's starting to get cold out there."  
"Naaah, tell him he wouldn't want to be in the hottest place on Earth next to Hell." Scott shook his head as they all began to walk. "We're practically in the middle of a desert."  
"Uncle Jake!" Suddenly, Scott felt something soft and stuffed slip into his hand. "Uncle Jake gave me a doll that belonged to Mommy! An' he gave me a new book!"  
"Oh, he _did_?" Scott brought the Raggedy Ann doll up to his face. He gave a grin to Sherry. "How nice of him to do that! And what was the book called?"  
"_Pat the bunny_." Sherry giggled. "Its really neat. You open the book an' you rub the bunny on the page an' its _real_ fur! An' you rub Judy an' Paul's daddy's face an' its all stubbly."  
"And for the past nine hours I've had to explain that _her_ daddy's face is not as stubbly as that."  
"Ho! Well!" With a laugh, Scott gave the doll back to Sherry. "That's if I shave properly."  
  
Laughing, the three started down the terminal. Behind them was Scott's father, who simply hobbled behind, neither smiling nor laughing. All he did was cough on the way down to the main entrance, sometimes violently. Scott could hear him, but decided that that moment was not the best time to press.  
  
"So…" Scott spotted Chuck. "There he is! My personal chauffeur."  
"Oh, sure I am!" Chuck snorted. "Only until you get a car for here or my car dies. Then you'll be hauling _my_ ass around town."  
"Now, Chuck…"  
"…Oh!" Chuck spotted Sherry. "Well, wash my mouth out with soap. _Hello_ there!"  
"Hi!" Sherry curtsied. "My name is Sherry Rose Garnet!"  
"And such a pretty girl, too!" Chuck bent down and smiled at Sherry. "My, you are the spitting image of your mother, and that's a compliment, sweetheart."  
"That's why the _paternity's_ iffy, sir."  
  
Chuck's eyes widened at this. He turned towards Scott's father with a smile, taking into consideration Scott's horrified expression. Scott's father did not smile back.  
  
"Ah, well…" Chuck gave a hearty laugh, trying to dispel the obvious tension. "She definitely has her father's chin, though, no?"  
"…Huh." Scott's father simply stared into Chuck. "What's your name?"  
"Captain Charles Yeager, sir." Chuck held out his hand. "Friends call me 'Chuck'. You're Hedgehog's father?"  
"Hiram." He did not shake Chuck's hand. "Address me as such, or as 'sir'."  
"…Hiram Garnet, sir?" Chuck put his hand down. He could see Scott's face take on more mortification as the conversation continued.  
"That's correct. And my son's name is _Scott_."  
"Ah, yes…." Chuck nodded. "I know...Hiram, sir."  
"Indeed." Hiram gave another violent cough. "And you're here….._why_?"  
"Oh, well…" Despite the old man's obvious disdain towards him, Chuck kept up appearances. "I'm here to drive you guys over to where you guys need to go, that's all. Also nice to meet a man's family; I've only got a wife right now." Nodding, "I hear you've got arrangements to stay at my house, right?"  
"Uh….yes…." Scott managed to finally get something in. "We're staying with you, Chuck."  
"Easy for you to say," Scott's father mumbled.  
"Wonderful!" Chuck beamed; he gave Scott a look of sympathy as he turned. "Its only a bit to the house my wife and I are staying in. Right this way to get your luggage….."  
  
------------------------  
  
The twenty-minute drive to Chuck's house was completely silent. Hiram Garnet had insisted on sitting in the front of the car, leaving Scott, Mary, and Sherry in the back. No one said a single word the whole way home; the obvious, sudden hostility that Hiram brought made it impossible to speak without scrutiny. Even Sherry, normally chipper around her grandfather, seemed to sense the animosity, and resigned herself to pat the bunny in her book without uttering a single thing.  
  
"….We're here!"  
  
Chuck turned into the driveway of the Levittown-styled military housing. It was brown, one-story, Stucco plastered house, with a wood and stone foundation. There was a garage at the end of the driveway, the roof was comprised of overlapped _ranchero_-style clay tiles, and there was a small, grassy knoll which lay behind the house. The house was also shaded by giant palm trees, which hung just over the roof. All around, little kids were playing on the sidewalks.  
  
"Well," Chuck threw on the brake. "We're he-"  
"Thank God." Hiram got out of the car before Chuck had turned the car off. "I'm going over there to have a smoke, right?"  
  
Hiram slammed the car door behind him and walked off, his cigarette carton in his hand. Scott, from the other side of the car, simply glared at him as he walked on, finally stopping several houses away to take out his lighter.   
  
"Good riddance," he said softly to himself.  
"…Come on." Mary opened the car door on her side. "Sherry, come on."  
"Wow, mommy!" Scott slowly got out of the car on his side as Mary picked Sherry out of the car. "Palm trees!"  
"Yup." Chuck nodded towards the front door to the house as it opened. "Hey, Sherry, would you like to meet my wife? I bet she might have candy."  
"YEAH!!!" Sherry was off and running.  
"Sherry!" Mary gave Chuck a look as she ran after her. "Not in the grass!"  
"….Thanks, Chuck."  
  
Scott's glaring expression did not fade as Chuck opened the trunk. Without much to say, Scott started to take the luggage out of the car.  
  
"….Interesting man, your father." Chuck lowered his voice. "I take it you and your father don't exactly have…..a loving relationship?"  
"….We're not close."  
"Ah." Chuck nodded. "It's ok. I can understand when a fella has a problem. I won't press, Hedgehog."  
"No. Its not you." Scott glared towards his father in the distance. "Let's just say that my father has a few outstanding hate issues with the military in general."  
"……A vet?"  
"First World War." Scott slammed the trunk shut. "Don't know what division, rank, anything."  
"And I take it he has a problem with _you_ in the military."  
"…..Yeah…." Scott picked up the suitcases. "You can say that."  
  
As he went up the drive, he was greeted by Mary halfway, who promptly took one of the bags from him and started walking. She wiped hair from her face as she looked at him. Her expression indicated that she knew.  
  
"….Scott…."  
"What?"  
"I had no choice."  
"Mmm."  
"I don't think anyone but us can put up with him, Hedgehog." Her eyes were slightly pleading as they approached the door. Scott could almost see the bags under her eyes. "You _really_ think I _wanted_ to bring him?"  
"Sometimes…." Scott opened the door. "I'm not sure, though I'm inclined to believe you right now. Did he go to the doctor again?"  
"He did…" Mary look uneasy. "But he's told me nothing of what they've said."  
"Ohh!!!!"  
  
Scott and Mary were immediately greeted by Glennis as if they were family when they entered; they were escorted into the living room, where Sherry sat with a glass of milk.  
  
"No, no!" Glennis scolded the two as they stood. "Put those cases down. You're guests here!"  
"You're not even going to let us unpack?" Scott gave a grin. "You're some hostess, Glennis!"  
"Well," Glennis smiled back. "I figured you guys would like something to eat before you went on your forays around the city."  
"Well…." Mary turned to Sherry. "I think we'll have some food before we start. What do you think, Sherry?"  
"I'm hungry!"  
"Glad she agrees." Scott smiled sheepishly. "Well, we'll also need to rent a car from somewhere-"  
"Don't be ridiculous." Glennis laughed, not noticing Chuck as he came in. "You can borrow our car."  
"_Your_ car…?"  
"Making plans without me, Glennis?" Chuck's eyebrow raised.  
"Now, Chuck…." Glennis turned to him. "Its not like you need to go anywhere, and I don't think they'll get into an accident. Not intentionally, at least."  
"….Its our only car, Glennis…."  
"_Chuck_…."  
"..Baaaah…." Chuck shrugged. "It looks like she's not budging, Hedgehog. I guess you'll be using our car."  
"…Well…." Mary looked at Scott, who gave a reluctant nod. "Thank you….."  
"Its nothing." Glennis waved it off. "We've got nothing to do right now. We don't need the car!"  
"Ok….." Scott nodded. "Well, after lunch, we'll be heading out with Sherry to see Los Angeles. It might take us some hours, if you don't mind, Chuck."  
"Oh, it doesn't bother us-"  
"Oh, but why are you going to take Sherry with you?"  
  
The question took everyone by surprise. From where he stood, Hiram simply coughed again.   
  
"Oh, hello!" Glennis looked over at Hiram with a smile. "A pleasure to meet you."  
"I'm here." Ignoring Glennis, Hiram turned to Scott. "What's with leaving me out?"  
"…I didn't think you'd like Los Angeles, pop."  
"One thing you got right for once." Scott felt his anger rise at the fact that Hiram had embarrassingly insulted everyone and everything in less than an hour, but he kept it in check. "But why take Sherry when I'm just going to stay here?"  
"Well, I....don't think it would be a good idea to just leave her here, either." Scott slowly replied.  
"Huh!" Hiram gave Scott a look. "What, you scared I'll do something to her?"  
"Of course not." Mary quickly interceded, giving Scott a look. "Hedgehog and I'll go out alone today, then. It may not be a good idea for Sherry to come today anyways - I have some things to talk to Scott about, you know."  
"...What?"  
  
Scott looked suspiciously at Mary, then back at his father, then back at Mary. Meanwhile, Glennis and Chuck watched the scene carefully. Sherry simply drank her milk.  
  
"Care to tell me now?"  
"It can wait," Mary quickly replied. "In the meantime, get your clothing out, right?"  
"......Sure."  
  
Scott truly wanted to protest against what was going on; more specifically, he wasn't too keen with his father staying with his daughter by himself in Chuck's house, or even for his daughter to be near his father at all for that matter. He truly despised his father for his comment about Mary at the airport, and it almost boggled his mind that Mary would even agree with his father on the matter of Sherry.  
  
Nevertheless, he was in the minority, as he could see Sherry's eyes brighten at the words of her mother. His shoulders slumped, and he just nodded with a disgruntled bob.  
  
"Sure, sure." he mumbled. "Just me and Mary. I'll go get changed."  
  
Without another word, he took up his military-issue duffel bag and walked down the hallway. His eyes scanned the hallway, finding the guest room near the end. He opened the door to the room, throwing his bag onto the queen-sized bed. He grasped the zipper and pulled with an annoyed yank.  
  
"Careful." The hacking voice made him stop. "You may bust a brain cell with the work."  
  
Scott swerved to face his father. The two simply glared at each other for several moments. There were many years of bad blood between the two; it didn't help that Hiram Garnet had long sinse been a bitter man to begin with.   
  
Scott had lied a bit to Chuck. His father had been a sergeant during the Meuse-Argonne offensive back in 1917. He had been a decorated soldier in a skirmish near the Kriemhilde; where that was, and what it was about, Scott was still unsure.   
  
However, his father was not a man to talk of his war experiences. Whatever had happened, it made Hiram hate ware completely. He saw war as an evil, and whenever he could, he preached against the war over in Europe and Japan. He hated everyone who contributed to the loss of life, including his own son. It didn't help matters that Hiram saw Scott as weak; Scott knew that his father saw him this way. A man didn't talk about his war experiences in Hiram's time, especially not bad experiences; the media agreed with him. Whereas Scott did talk to Hiram of it…once. It had certainly not been to the extent to which he told Mary, but it was enough. And all hell had broken loose when he did. Scott never forgave his father for his reaction.  
  
"You know...." His father sat down on the bed, coughing. "I got a call before we left for here. You remember Teresa?"  
"Teresa...?" The sudden change of subject took Scott by surprise.  
"Little girl you used to look after."  
"The...." Scott looked at his father. "Terry? Terry Butler?"  
"Yup." His father rubbed his hands together. "Only she's not a little girl anymore. She turned 20 in May."  
"Twenty....swell...."  
"She works at a doctor's office now. She's a secretary."  
"Swell...."  
  
Scott looked down at the ground, his hand rubbing through his blue hair. He gave several stiffened nods.  
  
"How the hell did your hair become that color, Scott?"  
"....Why did you bother coming?"  
"......What are you talking about?"  
"Pops." Scott's tone became sharp. "Stop playing with me. I didn't expect you to come and verbally abuse my friends and my family. Is that why you came?"  
"Its not them I'm angry at." His father's voice lowered. "I can't help that my son could have been a chump. You'd better feel _damn_ lucky I like Mary."  
"Which is why you made that comment about Sherry, right?" Scott took off his jacket with abrupt force. "I didn't know you were still the one I had to get approval from."  
"No, I think your ability to comprehend your own approval pretty much speaks volumes, _boy_." Hiram's voice became dangerously low. "It's why her family still won't talk to her. It's why we had to move out of the house our family had for 200 years. It's why you had to marry her to begin with. It's why you have a daughter."  
"You sound like I'm still 17." Scott felt his anger reach the boiling point. "Do you see me cozying up to any other girl out here?"  
"That's not the point."  
"Then what the hell is the point of bringing all of this up?" Scott's eyes slit as his voice raised slightly. "Is it because you're angry I've got a job in the military or because you're bitter that my mother's gone and you have no one left to submit? Or…" Scott could almost feel the maliciousness drip from his tongue as he spoke. "Is it because I'm proving myself to be the better man with my life after what I've been through and you're just jealous that I can take it better?"  
  
With that, he closed his eyes tightly, waiting for the inevitable blow. It never came. Instead, all that came were a barrage of violent coughs, angry coughs.  
  
"….I think I'll be leaving now."   
  
Without another word, Scott left the room, leaving Hiram alone. His words to his father shocked him, clinging to him as he walked briskly down the hall. He had never been so temperamental towards his father, especially saying such things to him….._taunting_ him in such a situation as this, one that would have normally made his father react swiftly, almost violently. So….bold. Almost as if it wasn't really Scott speaking, but someone else, a shadow of himself, whom he let speak. For whatever reason, he acted on an impulse.  
  
And, for some reason, he felt _good_.  
  
--------------------  
  
The feeling prevailed as he took Mary out that day. It was a very hot and humid day, so Scott ended up simply wearing a lighter pair of clothing than he had intended to wear. His formal suit and tie - for later on - was in the back of the car, along with Mary's formal dress.  
  
"Slow down, Scott."  
"….Sorry."  
  
Scott put the brake on. They had been driving for about an hour now, driving east towards the desert. All afternoon, they had driven themselves all around Los Angeles, taking in as many sights as they could. They had driven down Rodeo Drive, getting lost on their way to the Walk of Fame, and they stopped at a shop for directions to the haunted road behind the Hollywood sign. When they found it was closed, they could only look at each other sheepishly.  
  
For the most part, it had been an incredible afternoon. Scott and Mary's hearts had seemingly grown fonder with separation, and the absence of Scott's father resulted in a marked change in the behavior of both. They walked a lot when they didn't drive, holding hands, though it almost seemed as if they were skipping along in a musical, singing. They also talked a lot, and laughed as they experienced their misadventures at getting lost in the middle of a big city.   
  
"You know, Hedgehog…." Mary grasped his hand. "They are renaming the Rome Air Depot. Your co-workers told me to tell you."  
"Changing the name?" Scott looked at Mary. "Swell! Sounds nice. What are they calling it?"  
"Griffiss Air Force Base."  
"….Griffiss?" Scott looked amused. "An unusual thing to call it, isn't it?"  
"They're naming after an Air Force man. He…." Mary paused.  
"….Died?"  
  
Mary gave a smile, a reluctant smile, and slowly nodded, not sure to how Scott would react. To her surprise, he gave a smile and shook his head.   
  
"Actually," Scott's smile was almost a shrug; it had little effect on him. "I have _no_ clue who this Griffiss fella is."  
  
They had continued on, reaching the Chinese Mann Theatre. When they found themselves there, they decided to take in a movie. They saw _Gentlemen's Agreement_, recommended by the ticket booth, which starred a new actor named Gregory Peck. It had been a very deep movie, nothing like what Scott had expected; it was a postwar movie about reporter who sought to expose rampant anti-Semitism in a dangerous way. Unfortunately for Scott, as much as he liked the movie, it nevertheless evoked some memories.  
  
"….Hedgehog?"  
"….Excuse me." Scott had quietly stood up in the theatre. "I…need to go to the bathroom."  
  
After that, he had come back from a brief round of deep breaths for the rest of the movie with hardly a care, it seemed. His mood, he realized, was connected to what he had said to his father, as if he had faced down a great enemy and won. It was his own father, but to Scott, he truly deserved it after his behavior. Either way, Scott simply decided to discard all of his thoughts of the old man, and enjoyed himself for the first time in many months.   
  
Within his strange new feelings of impulsiveness that made all of this decision-making possible, Scott almost felt back in high school with Mary once more. Before Mary became pregnant - perhaps before he had actually met her - he and others from his track and field team used to sneak off to New York City on the weekends with the team of Mary's brother, Jake, and hang out in various bars with fake bars. It was fun to do; no one cared of their age, particularly in the seedier places, so long as they paid the tab. There would be rants about many things during their sojourns, from track meets to political policy (though their knowledge of this was very limited). And, for 16 and 17 year olds, the older women found them attractive; after several drinks, the boys tended to agree with them. Of course, Scott never gave himself to any woman other than Mary; he didn't care to get himself drunk enough to want sex with the various wives and whores that several others (including Jake) ended up laying with.  
  
_…..That was me…._ Scott's thoughts trailed. _All that freedom…..all that happiness. The ability to just be happy. Truly happy. I haven't felt this way in……ages….._  
  
"Hedgehog?"   
"Huh?"  
  
Scott's head went up. They had driven down towards Muroe; there was a small restaurant that Chuck had recommended in one of the towns he had visited. The two had decided to go there, and they were now dressed in their formal attire. They had been driving for almost two hours at the rate Scott had been going.  
  
"Stop."  
"Mary?"  
"I want to take a picture."  
"….Ok."  
  
The car stopped on the side of dusty desert road. Scott turned, and saw Mary get out of the car.  
  
"This….." Scott slowly followed suit and shut his car door behind him. Mary smiled as she came from the other side. "This…..is beautiful."  
  
Coming out of the car gave him a panoramic view. The silhouette of the desert landscape, the colors that it created, seemed to go on forever, making the desert look as if there was no end. The purples and oranges of the clouds that hung high up accented the sinking sun in the eastern sky. As Scott cocked his head towards the western horizon, the colors became darker until they had all become blackish blue, with only the dim stars to light the sky beyond that point.  
  
"Beautiful…." He murmured.  
"….Scott?" The camera clicked several times.  
"….I never get to see desert sunsets, not even where I am."  
"…It is beautiful….Scott?"  
"Hmm?"  
"I have to tell you something."  
  
Scott turned to Mary. She looked away from the scene before them, her hand with the camera going down to her side.  
  
"….I…." Mary looked at her, pleased, but also with some uncertainty in her eyes. "Do you remember the first time I told you of….when I used to talk of your war letters to Sherry?"  
"…..I wish I didn't."   
  
Scott's head went down. He had sent Mary many letters about the war, about the people he had met. He never went into depth with the more painful moments; he hadn't felt ready, as if it was a cursed subject.   
  
Nevertheless, the first night he had found Mary tell Sherry of his exploits, all hell had broken loose. It was the end of 1945; Sherry was only two years old at the time; she couldn't understand it. Mary herself had tried to explain to Scott what she had done; she had not talked of it directly, she had cried. She explained it in a way Sherry could understand.   
  
But that night, Scott would hear none of it; even two years after Salerno, the pain and anger was still raw. He had pulled Mary up very roughly by her hair, up to his height, to his enraged eyes. What he did next, Scott did not care to remember, and he was sure Mary didn't. After all, it had taken three months for the bruise to heal; six months before Scott could muster up the courage to apologize.   
  
By the time Sherry's third birthday had come, the stories returned, that terrible night fading from her memory. But Scott knew that Mary had not been completely forgiving, particularly after Hiram inexplicably sided with Scott's actions and had even applauded what Scott had done. She looked frightened, even now, to speak of it.  
  
"When you told me of….that little hedgehog."  
"Yes." Mary still looked at Scott, a tinge of uncertainty clouding her eyes. "Scott, I sent it to several people, and-"  
"You're going to publish the stories. Without my permission."  
  
It had been the first thing that had come to mind. He had expected to be angry, to be enraged, that Mary would go behind his back again, to do such a thing to his memories. Yet, this time, he felt no anger, no rage. Just surprise.  
  
"Scott…" A tinge of fear cam into Mary's voice. "Look, I understand…..you don't like that idea…..but……I just felt……well, we could use the money. And, well, the neighborhood kids like the little hedgehog…"  
"…..You've been telling the neighborhood kids too?"  
  
_No rage…_   
  
Scott's almost stoic reaction took even Scott by surprise. It was as if he didn't care; as if something within him now was _happy_ about it. He pondered if it was the same feeling that caused him to insult his father earlier, though he couldn't be sure.  
  
And yet, that same feeling had also seemed to pervade him to be truthful. He could not understand it, but he felt suddenly compelled - obligated - to tell Mary about what had happened at Muroe, about the night with Ridley.  
  
_Hm._ Scott closed his eyes.   
  
"Scott….." Mary turned away. "Look. I know you have a problem dealing with your feelings. And I know you haven't been seeing a doctor about it, so don't lie and say you have. I know you're mad at me. But I think….I think I should publish this. I think its something I need to do. I mean…." Mary started to walk. "So many men are talking about their time over there now. I see the way I tell it as….a way to explain it, but to kids, like Sherry. I mean, I admit, I still don't understand parts of why this war happened, but…..I think….simplifying it helps. I think the hedgehog helps, because…..he's _you_, Scott. He helps me to put your thoughts in perspective, to see you as…something better than how you think yourself to be." Mary turned back to Scott. "And so I don't care what you say about it, either. I'm going to publish this, and you can beat me until my face turns black and blue, because it won't change my mind this time."  
"….Mary…."  
  
He took her hand and clenched it tightly. Looking down at her trembling hand, he began to speak again after several moments.  
  
"….I don't think you understand."  
"…Scott…." Mary looked down. "I just told you-"  
"…No, its not that." Scott shook his head. "Its not you….its me."  
"…Scott…." Mary's voice was slightly irritated. "How many times have I told you-"  
"No, Mary. That's not what I have a problem with. I _don't_ have a problem anymore." Scott shook his head. "I've gone past blaming myself, from blocking out all of what happened."  
"Then why are you still dwelling on it?"  
"…..Because I guess I have to." Scott turned to Mary. "Maybe it's the battle fatigue coming back, but I just have had this….feeling….to think about it. I mean," Scott quickly smiled. "I don't think about it all the time. It's not like before. I just think about it in my sleep, where no one can interrupt my thoughts. I somehow have far better control over it….because I'm _not_ suppressing the memories this time."  
"All the same." Mary shook her head. "You should see a doctor."  
"….No." Scott made a turn onto another road. "Mary…..I know it sounds strange for me to say this, but I've put it behind me. I….I've had a bit of a revelation, I guess you could say." Scott nodded at his words. "It kind of came by accident, but in it, I realized something. I'm not alone in my experiences, you know?"  
"How do you mean?"  
"Well…." Scott kicked the dirt under his feet. "The truth is, Rome isn't exactly a place I can find peers. All I have is my commanding colonel, several lieutenants who push papers…..and other ground people who I don't know personally, but I know they were never even _in_ the war. Right now, I'm practically the only pilot, let alone the only pilot who saw action in any theater. When I come home, there's you, and Sherry…..and my father." The last part was almost grumbled. "Whenever I meet your friends, they are all females. I hardly find myself with men, because I never really have the time to go and get out, and even if I did, I know I won't find anyone who's like me. I'm an outsider with a reputation (small as it is) in a growing city that has several hundred families that have been here for generations, who know each other like family. And how many men to begin with are going to admit to their wives, or their friends, that they were in the war, and that they did such things that led up to things like death….and destruction…..?"  
  
There was a pause at this. Scott looked up towards the slowly darkening sky and continued.  
  
"Then I come here, and the men I work with……many of them are….like me. They saw the war. They lived it. They did and saw the same things I saw. Some of them were even prisoners, or if they weren't someone they knew…." Scott thought of Ridley's Marine friend at this. "I never thought I'd feel able to talk to anyone without getting angry at myself, knowing all the things I managed to inflict, all the men I watched die. But these guys…..they live different than me. They live lives that have much more freedom, because they made a few better decisions than I did. Most of them come from the same station, and again I'm an outsider. And yet with all of that, they accepted me. I'm like a brother to almost all of them." Scott almost smirked at this. "To think, I thought all this time that there was something _wrong_ with being more open. A few months out here does wonders to my foolish mind, eh?"  
"It shows."  
  
Scott turned to Mary at this. He looked at her, somewhat confused.  
  
"Huh?"  
"I mean…..not in a bad way." Mary quickly corrected herself. "I mean….you _do_ somehow seem different. You're handling yourself around Hiram better, not going off on him."  
"I'd still like to go off on him." Scott shook his head. "What he said about you was completely unacceptable."  
"He's said and done worse, Scott."  
"Yeah, I know." There was a hint of darkness in Scott's voice at this. "It's still unacceptable for him to say such things."  
"…..I know."  
  
By this time, the sun was completely behind the horizon, and only the moon and the blues and blacks of the night remained. They were accompanied by the white dots, the stars, that scattered themselves around the heavens. The desert did not lose its beauty either; the greys and dark brown shadows that now permeated the landscape around them took on another life, and the mountains became the shadows of giants trekking the night desert.  
  
"You know, Mary….somehow, I feel like…..I'm supposed to be here. Of course, most people would think of that as crazy talk, especially the fellas where I work." A cold wind began to blow; Scott took Mary into his arms. "I must admit, though, sometimes I feel myself to be the last to know anything; maybe because I was the last one here, or maybe everyone really _does_ know more then they wish to let on. I guess….the work right now's a little stressful. Morale's low for several reasons, and I'm not one who likes working in those conditions."  
"I know you don't like surprises." Mary looked down. "I wasn't sure what you'd say about this whole matter of publishing."  
"….. Everything's a surprise, but I'll just have to take it in stride, as best as I can." Scott held his breath. "But I trust you. You're not going to humiliate me or anything; its just a little hedgehog. The truth is, most people will know him as nothing more than that, and I certainly don't mind being in its shadow."  
  
There was another moment of silence at this. For some reason, Scott felt like he was lying, but he pushed this strange thought to the back of his mind. It was all Mary's to do with it, and in terms of his full role, he considered it small despite being the hedgehog's inspiration.  
  
"…I…." Mary paused. "I….thank you for your trust, Hedgehog."  
  
Scott gave a long sigh. It was one filled with relief, a sigh that almost seemed to exhale the weight of the secret that had burdened him for so many years. Then, he gave a smile, the first true smile he had done in ages.  
  
"Come on, Mary." He rubbed her shoulders. "I'm hungry, and I want to know more about what you're writing."  
  
------------------------  
  
The drive home was much more lively than the drive to the restaurant. The whole time, Scott and Mary laughed. It helped that they were both slightly drunk, though the subtraction of drink would not have been a loss to their conversations.  
  
"So!…" Scott snorted. "This evil dictator in your story….you made him the bastard child of Hitler and Mussolini. I like that."  
"I figured you would."  
"And the little hedgehog…?"  
"I think I'll make him blue," Mary teased. "Besides, he's blue on your jacket."  
"Well," Scott mocked. "_That_ is because you had no brown yarn to work with, ma'am."  
"Oh," Mary stuck her tongue out at him. "I think the fact your hair's turned the same color must be a sign. The little blue hedgehog that saves the world!"  
"Well," Scott smirked back, "There goes the poor hedgehog's ability to blend into the background with those other little hedgehogs."  
  
The conversation over dinner, which had been Monterrey crab and salt potatoes, had been the specifics of the stories Mary had been writing. Most of them, Scott learned, resembled the stories she told to Sherry.   
  
Essentially, it was about a little hedgehog whom saved the world's seven continents from an aspiring world dictator. The evil, mad, mustached, egg-shaped dictator, armed with his charm and his evil army, turned his animal subjects into mindless slaves who were like robots; those who refused to surrender were put to work in metal-making factories, forgotten as they worked to death. Though the dictator attacked other countries with many terrible weapons, the dictator was still human, so he was trusted by the other humans until, eventually, he betrayed them as well.   
  
Soon, all the evil dictator needed to complete his quest for world domination were seven gems - each gem representing the power of the people's souls, each kept on a continent of Earth. When all seven were collected, the person who had them could control the people of Earth forever. Since no one else seemed to know of the gems or where they were, the Eggman - as the rebels called him, as no one knew his true name, which was Robotnik - figured he could win easily.   
  
However, just when the dictator thought he was going to win, a prophesy came: One who knew the Eggman's true name would defeat him. Sure enough, a small hedgehog, a wanderer who happened to know of Eggman's real name, suddenly appeared and vowed to stop him. With the help of his friends, he collected the gems and used the power of good to defeat the evil man, banishing evil from the world for all eternity.  
  
"Boastful but innocent, eh?" Scott smiled mischievously. "Are you going for paradoxes?"  
"Ha." Mary chuckled. "I'll have you know that you _can_ be very boastful. Innocent is questionable, I admit."  
  
The two laughed like they had not laughed in a very long time. The cool wind blew into the car as they drove; soon, they could see the distant lights of Los Angeles. They were not far from the military housing facilities at this point; the time had flown by too fast, and they both wished the drive could be longer.  
  
"Ah, here we are." Scott spotted the appropriate turn. "Mary…..I'm wondering if you've thought of a name for the hedgehog?"  
"Hmm…." Mary wiped their hair from her eyes. "You know…..I actually never thought of a name. I should, though, shouldn't I?"  
"Heh…"  
  
Scott blinked. There were a lot of cars on the road at this time of night, and all of them seemed to be leaving the base. He looked at this with a confused expression as he started to turn on the road the Yeagers lived on..  
  
"What in the heck….?"  
"Sir!!"  
"SCOTT!!!"  
  
Scott's eyes bolted back towards his side of the road. He managed to slam on the brakes just in time, missing the officer by mere inches.  
  
"Damn….sorry, Mary."  
"Scott!" Mary gave several gasps. "I thought for sure you were going to hit him. Pay attention!"  
"Sir?"  
  
The officer, clearly relieved, slowly moved towards Scott's side of the car. In return, both Mary and Scott looked at the officer - a lieutenant - with confusion. Behind him was a hastily set up roadblock, complete with wooden road liners, MP cars blocking the way and flashing lights.   
  
"Look's serious." As the officer came closer, Scott slowly wound down his window. "Is something the matter, sir?"   
"Excuse me, sir." After a moment of maneuvering, the officer leaned his head into the car. "I apologize for the delay. There's been a situation in this neighborhood."  
"….A situation?"  
"I'll need to ask for your identification, sir, and for your military issue ID for verification."  
"Uh…..certainly, sir." Scott quickly went into his suit pocket. He produced his brown, leather wallet and flipped it open for the officer to see "How serious is the situation, sir?"  
"Serious." The officer's eyes widened. "Sir, you are USAAF Capt. Scott Garnet?"  
"…Yes, sir."  
"Sir…." The officer looked nervous. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'll have to ask you and the lady to step out of the car right now."  
"….No problem, lieutenant."  
  
Scott looked over at Mary, who returned his glance with a glance of concern. Slowly, but surely, the two of them stepped out of the car. Nodding, the officer motioned for them to follow.  
  
"I apologize for doing this, sir." Scott watched carefully as two others quickly moved the wooden road liners. "I need you to come with me."  
  
Scott and Mary looked at each other yet again as they were walked briskly down the road. Scott, in particular, couldn't understand what was going on. He hadn't done anything wrong, at least not that he knew of. He hadn't seen anything happen; he didn't even live there. He couldn't get why they were detaining him, or letting him in, whichever one it turned out to be.   
  
For five minutes, he went through every possible thing that could have happened. When everything concerning him was eliminated, however, a new possibility, one even more terrifying than anything he could think of when it came to him, crossed his mind.  
  
_Sherry._  
  
His eyes looked up towards the direction of the Yeagers' house. His eyes widened in terror.  
  
"**SHERRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**"  
  
He was instantly running towards the house. White cars - white ambulatory cars - surrounded it along with the brown MP cars. Scott knew what was going on, had a terrible sensation that went from his stomach down to his groin, when he was close enough to read what it said on the sides of the white automobiles.  
  
**_SAN JOAQUIN SANATORIUM_**, the logos blared. Scott's stomach turned. Sanitoriums only came to someone's house for one reason, and one reason only.  
  
"SIR!!! WAIT!!!!!!!"  
  
If Scott had not slowed down, the lieutenant would not have been able to catch up to him. He had been running like crazy towards the group of cars, but the horror of realization caused him to slow down to a shocked jog. He didn't even feel the man grab his arm; he simply slowed down, his mouth open, his eyes staring in disbelief.  
  
"…No….."  
"Sir, I'm sorry…." The lieutenant quickly went into his pocket. "You'll have to put this mask on if you want to go in. Its standard procedure."  
"This can't be happening…."  
"Scott….."   
  
Mary had taken her shoes off to run after him; however, she, too, had stopped when she saw the cars. Her eyes widened, and she covered her mouth with her hands.  
  
"Oh……oh my god…." Scott heard her muffled voice shake. "Oh, god, Scott, he didn't do this…..he _didn't_……"  
"I'm sorry, ma'am…." The lieutenant looked nervous as he spoke. "I'm sorry, but we got a call at about one this afternoon from the Yeager house. A man in his early fifties was collapsed on the floor, coughing up blood, and he was unable to breathe properly on his own. It was full-blown tuberculosis; from the sound of it, the medics said this man had it for years."  
"Oh, God……" Mary's voice began to shake violently. She understood, began to grasp. "Oh my God…..Scott, he _couldn't_….he……oh, God, Scott, your _father_!!"   
"They had to take everyone who was there at the house away - the residents, and I assume your daughter as well." Scott's mind started to not hear the man speak; his stomach, his whole body was numbed with shock. "We may have to ask you to come with us as well, if you've been exposed….."  
  
------------------------  
  
He finally got to the San Joaquin Sanitorium at three in the morning.  
  
"Hiram Garnet." He slammed his hand down on the desk. "Please, I need to see him. Now."  
  
The nurse, startled by Scott's sudden entrance, gave him a look of suspicion and amusement as she slowly scanned him. He returned her look with a glare from his glazed, bag-saddled eyes.  
  
"He's in room 4. But…" Suddenly, she grabbed his hand as he started to walk towards the ward. "Visitor hours are not until 9 am. So I'm afraid you'll have to wait somewhere until then."  
"…I'll wait here."  
  
With that, Scott sat, twiddling his thumbs as he looked down towards the floor. The nurse went to say something; upon his looking at his glance, she fell silent and said nothing.  
  
He said nothing for the entire six hours; he did nothing but sat with his head down towards the floor and his entire body slumped in the chair. Occasionally, he would rub his hand through his hair and give a sad sigh. The nurses and doctors would look over at him inquisitively, but would eventually not bother with him.  
  
As for Scott, his mind was filled with drowsy thoughts of the past several hours. The drive had been five long hours of highways and confusing back roads, and the lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll on the young man.   
  
The sun that came up during that time he waited, with its bright rays and glaring light shining into the hallway. When the sun showed the full extent of the physical results of the past day and a half of his life. His brown eyes were red and bloodshot as he rubbed them to the point where they were going to tear up from having no rest. The bags underneath his eyes, the slight stubble on his chin, the disarray of his suit and his generally pale countenance also attested to the mounting stress he was going through.   
  
_….Pops…._ Though his mind was filled with questions, one question in particular kept running through his head the whole six hours, and it gnawed at him each time he came back to it. _Pops, how could you…how could you do this…….._  
  
"Excuse me."  
  
Scott's head jerked up at the voice. His eyes widened as he looked around for the origin of the voice.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Scott then looked up. A grey-haired man in a white smock looked down at him, his eyes showing slight amusement even though his face was covered with a surgical mask. Slowly, Scott stood up.  
  
"Urm…."  
"May I help you?"  
"Um…." Scott looked around nervously. "I'm…..um……I'm here to see someone."  
"Name?"  
"….Hiram Garnet." Scott fingered his shirt lapel. "He's my….father."  
"Garnet, eh?" The doctor seemed to muse for a moment, then nod. "Oh, yes. The new case. Just a moment."  
  
Scott watched as the doctor went down the hall and into the sterile, white-walled ward. He walked into several of the rooms, peering into each before coming out and going further down into the hall. Scott watched closely, though his eyes felt heavy, and his vision was starting to blur. Nevertheless, he forced himself to stay awake as the doctor began to return.  
  
"Ahh….yes…." In the doctor's hand was a surgical mask. "I'm afraid that the severity of his case forces us to take certain precautions to ensure minimal exposure to the tuberculosis cells."  
"…Sure."  
  
Scott took the mask and put the strap on behind his head, covering his mouth and nose. Nodding, the doctor motioned for him to follow.  
  
"I sincerely feel sorry for you and your family, Mr. Garnet." Scott felt the doctor's hand on his shoulder. "I myself have had several deaths to _Mycobacterium tuberculosis_. It is a devastating illness to watch."  
"….You know my daughter?"  
"The little girl, and your two friends." Scott sucked in his breath as the doctor spoke. "But I would not worry. I have seen your daughter and your friends, and given the accounts they have given, they have not had enough collective exposure to the disease to actually contract the active form of it.: The doctor opened a door. "Your father only visited once every couple of weeks, when you were home, yes?"  
"….Yes…."  
"Though that gives a 10 percent of your daughter contracting it, I would not be too worried." Scott found himself inside a thin, white-walled room with a small desk-like apparatus in the middle of it. "Sit, please."   
"Sir?"  
"I am going to give you a small test." The doctor opened up a cabinet. "I am going to give you a purified protein derivative - a PPD."  
"Huh?"  
"A skin test." Scott could only grimace suspiciously at the needle the doctor suddenly presented, followed by a small vial, which he then inserted the needle into. "This will sting a bit when I inject it into you, but there should be no problem. Hold out your arm, please."  
  
Scott licked his lips as a swab was rubbed on his forearm. Then, he felt the needle slide in. There was no painful sensation, though he could feel a slight sting under his skin as the liquid went into his pores, creating a large, red bump just under his skin. It looked almost like a bump of puss waiting to become a whitehead, a mosquito bite, as the needle came out, but Scott knew better than to pick at it.  
  
"There. Hmm, its already going down." The doctor nodded. "Good. Same as the others. An indication you're negative."  
"My daughter?"  
"Your daughter and the Yeagers are fine." Scott felt relief come to him as the doctor spoke. "They will be allowed home tomorrow at the earliest."  
"…..Swell….."  
  
Scott paused. He knew it wasn't really great. He had questions.  
  
"….May….I see my father?"  
"Of course, young man." The doctor put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Right this way."  
  
With that, the doctor walked him across the hallway, opening a door. What Scott was quietly ushered into was a large, stone walled room with several large windows, completely white washed. Everything was white; beds, sheets, clothing, curtains, frames, and even the rugs and lamps were white. There were at least thirty beds in the room; there were ten nurses, all donning white candy stripes, caps and surgical masks, whisking around and handing out small shot glasses filled with a light red substance from metal trays. It was also very quiet, almost eerily silent, save for the occasional, uncontrollable coughing of the sick in the beds.  
  
"He's over here." As Scott walked with the doctor, a nurse bussed past him, smacking into his shoulder. She said nothing to him. "He's badly off, I'm afraid. We are still not sure when he acquired the disease, but we assume he has had it for a long time. We called the doctor and confirmed that he at least knew of the condition he was in for several months, if not years, and the doctor had recommended confinement."  
"…..Several years?"  
"Yes…" The doctor sounded uneasy as he heard Scott's reply. The uneasiness disappeared an instant later. "Have you noticed symptoms of coughing and weight loss?"  
"…..Well…." Scott mumbled as they turned to the right. He looked down. "I noticed that he was coughing a lot, and I had my wife goad him into going to a doctor. He may have lost some weight, but my father's always been a thin man. He also smoked…"  
"Well, the smoking probably didn't help. We noticed an amount of what looked like tobacco in his lungs when we did an x-ray," the doctor replied. "Its possible the smoking worsened his condition, but right now we have too little information on what tobacco can do to a person to really make much of that. But in your father's case, it probably didn't help, and we can definitely tell."  
"…Ok…"  
  
The doctor stopped, and Scott looked up. Staring back at him was his father, sitting up in the bed, staring at him with a weak glare. He looked thinner, more sunken in, more pathetic in his white nightgown. His normally slicked back hair was greasy and unkempt, and his arm was attached to an IV bag. Next to his bed was a small side table, where the shot glass was kept.  
  
"…..Pops."  
"I'll leave…you two alone." The doctor turned away. "I'll be visiting other patients. If you have any questions, Mr. Garnet, feel free to come over to me."  
  
With a nod, Scott turned to his father, walking to the side of the little table. As he stared into his father's eyes, he began to feel the strange impulsiveness that he has felt the day before. The same feeling of recklessness, of freedom, as if what he was about to do was right. His eyes closed, squinted at the shadow that had once been his father. With the impulsiveness, with the stare, he could feel his anger start to rise, and he tried his best not to let the rage out.  
  
"…..Scott." His father spoke first. "What the hell are you doing here?"  
"….Why else would I be here?" Scott's controlled tone was much angrier than he had thought it would be. "I'd like to ask a few questions of you, _father_."  
"What questions would you ask me?"  
"Don't pull that shit, pops." Scott's voice was sharp. "Don't you _dare_."  
"So I'm sick." Hiram shrugged. "What's the deal?"  
  


****

*WHAM!*

  
  
Scott's fist dented the small table with a loud bang. The small vial flew off of the side and shattered into a hundred tiny pieces. The red substance trickled from the shards, staining the rug around one of the bedposts. Several patients in the vicinity of Hiram's bed were taken by this action, and they began to watch with curiosity.  
  
"You ass." Scott's voice darkened. He could feel his anger rise, and was beginning to find it hard to control. "You lied to me. You lied to me, you lied to Mary-"  
"What's it to you?" Hiram struggled to sit up straighter. "You think I'm the only one who's done wrong here?"  
"I'm not the one who kept his illness a secret!" Several more patients and two nurses began to look on. "I'm not the one who didn't tell his family that he was dying!"  
"Oh, you care _now_, kid? What a shock!" Hiram weakly threw his hands up. "You never seemed to care before. It's only important if it applies to your new family, huh?"  
"What the hell are you talking about?!" Scott's eyes widened. "This is your _daughter-in-law_! Your _granddaughter_!!!! They're your _FAMILY!_ They're a part of your family! How is it I suddenly and supposedly have a new family?!"  
"What do you think I'm talking about, boy?!?"  
"Why are you blaming this on me! _I_ didn't get you sick! _You_ got yourself sick! And you didn't tell us!!!" Scott's voice was almost shouting. "You have NO idea how worried I was about all of this, during the entire time I drove here!!! Have you any realization that you could have KILLED people because you hid this from us?!?"  
"Well, if you hadn't had your daughter," Hiram finally snapped. "Maybe you wouldn't _have_ to worry about anyone dying!!!!!!"  
  
There was a sudden, terrible silence at this. Several more of the other bedmates looked on as Scott simply stared at his father, his mouth open, unable to say a word.  
  
"…..You…….."  
  
Scott could not believe his ears at what he had just heard. It couldn't have been possible that his father…..his _father_…..could have thought of such a terrible thing up, no matter what happened. It was his _father_.  
  
But it made to much sense; it all came back, it all came together like a cruel truth that had always been dangling in front of Scott, just waiting, taunting him, as he stretched vainly to reach it. The secrecy, the anger, the sarcasm and insults his father hurled. All of the visits his father made. All the _coughing_ he did. All of the time; ever since Sherry had been born, even before, Mary would write of the coughing. Even before then, when Scott would come home from elementary school, he'd see his father with a nagging cough, and his mother trying to make him comfortable.   
  
Then his mother got sick and died, and it had started to get worse….He thought all the smoking had made it worse…..wait…..his _mother_ had been the same way.   
  
_Oh, God, no….._   
  
The next thought that came into his mind sickened him. Now Scott knew it wasn't just a nagging cough all those years that just got worse from the smoking…..and it was no accident that his father had never said anything.  
  
All because of him. All because of Sherry. Because of a mistake that came out _right_ for once.  
  
Scott's eyes almost immediately hardened towards the man who could do such a thing to his own family. He had been right; the impulsive insult he had hurtled at his father about jealousy, right on the mark. About his mother, about the war….about everything.  
  
He could feel himself pale; he knew that he wouldn't be pale for long, as the blood was already coming to his cheeks. His hands, his arms, his whole body began to shake violently with pure rage.  
  
"You………"  
  
His hands clenched to the point where his nails cut skin. He glared at his father, this bitter, pale, thin old man pretending to be a father, his open mouth in an almost animal-like snarl. The rage and anger he felt because of this man, from all of the insults, and hits, the cuts and bruises, all of the blood that had been brought up by the disease and by Hiram's own hand, and now the deaths he could have caused and did cause. It was all contained by a single, paper-thin shred of desperate restraint, a final failsafe of protest against violence, a threshold that he had only crossed once before.  
  
Then that was lost, and Scott crossed.  
  
"YOU FUCKING **SON OF A _BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_**"  
  
The next thing Scott knew, his fist smashed into his father's face. He could feel the blood pour onto his hand, dripping down onto the bed. His father gave a gasp, a violent shudder, slamming his head back into the bed frame. Blood began to trickle down from his skull, dripping onto the bedposts. But Scott didn't care. His rage got the best of him. All he wanted to do now was to make Hiram suffer.  
  
"MR. GARNET!" Before Scott could take another swing, the doctor was on him, pulling him back. "SIR!!"  
"YOU GODDAMN FUCKING ASSHOLE!!" Scott was screaming; he didn't hear anyone, only saw the truth. "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!?!?!?!? SHE'S YOUR FUCKING GRANNDAUGHTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!"  
"SIR!!!!!!"  
"SHE WAS YOUR @#%$ WIFE!!!!!" Scott's rage only grew. "HOW THE FUCK COULD YOU **DO** THIS TO YOUR OWN FUCKING FLESH AND BLOOD?!?!?!?"  
"_SIR!!!!!!!!!!!!!_"  
  
Hiram could only watch in shock as his son was restrained at his bedside, first by the doctor, then by several nurses. He could almost taste the angry tears of betrayal coming from Scott's eyes, and his angry scream pulsed into his ears.   
  
It was something Hiram had wanted to hear for so long. It was the anger, the rage of Scott being unable to stop Hiram from finally imposing his will on him that Hiram wanted to see. He wanted to show Scott that he had won. Ever since Scott, a mere eighteen years old, had come home that fateful day almost five years ago with Mary, and had sat him down to tell him that Mary was carrying Scott's child, Hiram wanted nothing more than revenge on Scott. For betraying him, for dragging down the Garnet name, for defying him and deviating from what Hiram wanted. He didn't care the cost, so long as Scott knew who the boss of Scott's destiny was. As far as Hiram had always been concerned, he was supposed to be the boss, not Scott.  
  
Until now. As he held his bleeding nose, as he felt a cough come up to his throat, he saw something else that was totally unexpected. Gazing into Scott's enraged expression, looking deep into his eyes, Hiram saw a glimpse of something else. It was something he could not control, a power in Scott's soul that came out now, that came to show Hiram what he did, and what had happened to Scott as a result.  
  
It was then that Hiram realized he lost the battle for control, and in essence lost the war forever. There was nothing left of the Scott Garnet that Hiram had once been able to commandeer. The son Hiram once had, the son that was obedient to him, who shared his beliefs, who was his carbon copy, and who took all of his blows with no complaint, was completely gone. The new Scott that had replaced him was seen within his eyes, brimming with an emotional, almost inhuman fire that was nothing that Hiram had ever taught him. There was a new master of Scott's destiny, one that transcended Hiram's insignificant workings.  
  
"YOU BASTARD!!!!!" The angry new Scott, the Scott that no longer had Hiram as his father, screamed even as he was dragged off. "YOU…..YOU……WORTHLESS PIECE OF **SHIT**!!!!"  
"Calm down, Mr. Garnet!!!" The doctor turned to one of the nurses. "Come on, help me get him out of here, and get a sedative if he doesn't calm down after we get him out…"  
"I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL!!!!" Scott pointed a finger of damnation at his father even as he was dragged off. "I HOPE YOU FUCKING **DIE**! I HOPE YOU DIE A SLOW, PAINFUL DEATH! YOU FUCKING PRICK!!!!!!!! YOU FUCKING CHEAPSKATE!!!!!!! YOU CAD!!!!!!!"  
  
Scott's insults echoed through the room even as he was taken out. By this time, every single person left in the room - all of the patients, visitors and nurses - were now looking at Hiram, their eyes and expressions filled with shock and confusion. To Hiram, they could have been stares of hate and condemnation.  
  
"Scott……sca…..hu………..huh……..hua……"  
  
He wanted to apologize; for the first time in his life, he wanted to say he was sorry. But it was too late for Hiram; his weak call for his only son ended in nothing more than an uncontrollable spiral of bloody, violent, disease-ridden coughs.   
  
  



	11. IX

****

IX

  
  
  
  
"Thank you. Next!"  
  
Meg nervously checked her watch as another reporter was quickly ushered out of the room where Chuck Yeager, American hero, sat. It was 1:14, one minute before her interview, and she was near the back of the line of at least sixty reporters inside an office building just behind the airfield.  
  
_Damnit…_  
  
She hated lines; the only comfort of the situation was that the building was being well air-conditioned. This gave her a reason to wear the jacket, and she did so as everyone else around her froze.   
  
On those around her, they were all reporters who seemed to come from everywhere. Having taken some German in school, she instantly picked up the excited conversation of two men in front of her. They were pretty excited, or at least somewhat happy, to be here. The tone of most of the other reporters, many in English, but many in languages she did not understand, seemed to echo a happiness of being at the ceremony. After all, not only was it an anniversary of Chuck Yeager's first flight, it would also be a ceremony of his fastest flight yet; he was to fly an F-15 to mark his flight, going an estimated ten times faster than the speed of sound. And, on top of it, some speculated that it was possible he wouldn't live to the next decade; he was 64, and anything could happen. As it was, it was held that this would be Yeager's last piloted flight.  
  
_….Hmmm….._  
  
This new, final flight was not the intention of Meg's questions; at least, not anymore. After the name Scott Garnet passed through her ears, she realized she had a new purpose. She grasped her jacket, knowing what she had to say.  
  
Of course, a part of her still laughed at the old veterans who jabbered away listlessly, who put the silly idea in her head. A part of her still laughed at Joan O'Meara for her silly obsessions with Mary Garnet, for being a little Japanese sod who taught pointy-eared liberals in San Francisco. A part of her still laughed at Naoto Ohshima for just being there, a kid whose little video game ambitions were nothing more than pipe dreams and foolishness. That part, however, was getting smaller by the minute, and more by the minute she questioned whether she was just going for the risk of making herself look like an idiot or just being downright insane.  
  
_What would George say?…._ she gave a huff. _No. To hell what George says. This is _my_ fucking story, not his. If he wanted it done a certain way, he should have just come out here on his own._  
  
"Next!"  
  
The line was going abnormally quick, especially for the magnitude of the event. Already, ten reporters had come and gone in a span of five minutes. At this, Meg looked around, at first confused, then annoyed. Something was going on with the general. She began to open her mouth.  
  
"What de hell es going on?" Some male with a thick Italian accent in front of Meg suddenly asked the question that she had been about to blurt out. "We still got forty five minutes before he go up. Why de hell they hus'ing everyone?"  
"Somethin' 'bout his wife," another reporter, a Southerner, gave his voice. "She's started to get a bit sick out in July, and I reckon its gotten worse since. So he's asked that we only ask a max of two questions when we go in. He doesn't want to stay any longer than he has'ta."  
"I vas nevir told of des!"  
"Neither was I. We were told three minutes!" Another voice came in. "How in hell do you know this, sir? Are you a reporter?"  
"Andrew Outleer, Atlanta Tribune." The Southerner gave a chuckle, albeit one that was tainted with frustration. "Don't worry. I don't think anyone was. I had to ask one of those guards outside about it, and he told me that that's the reason why our interviews are so late."  
  
_Great._ Meg rolled her eyes. _Yet another wonderful setback. Less time. Whoopdie fucking doo to you, Yeager._  
  
Nevertheless, her excitement still built as the line quickly thinned down. She knew what she had to do; she had to figure out a way to at least get some type of indication of whether or not Garnet truly existed, whether the story of Garnet's death was accountable. The general didn't even have to say anything directly; more subtle reactions would be the telling test. Any type of a reaction that seems shocked or the slightest bit negative would tell her. The problem was using the two question limit to her advantage to get such a reaction.  
  
The answer to the problem was simple. She had to start out with something about Scott Garnet. No, make the inquiry about Scott Garnet the next question. The latter made much more sense to Meg; a reporter looking for answers always have to make his or her victim feel comfortable, feel relaxed and complacent, unsuspecting of any real trouble, before firing off the hard questions that will take the old geezer by surprise.  
  
_All I'll need,_ Meg thought to herself as she flipped on her tape recorder to test out the battery, _Is a sign. Any sign that will tell me. Just one._  
  
"Next!"   
  
Just two more now stood in front of her. Her muscles began to tense up with expectation; she felt a shiver run down her spine, and a butterfly in her stomach, as the minutes slowly passed. She felt she shouldn't be this excited, and yet felt there was reason to be excited. It seemed like a boring anniversary, and yet there was a secret to uncover. If she could get a hint of anything off of Yeager, she knew, then the implications for the history of many things - NASA, the USAF, the government in general - would be astronomical.  
  
_And even if this guy didn't make it past the sound barrier…._ Meg could almost feel the small bit maliciousness in her intentions as she looked at the door that had Yeager in it. _Even if he didn't, he still died on the project. Yet even _I_ know that the government announced there being no fatalities on Project Blue Gale. They must take great pride knowing that their public thinks they pulled a miracle out of their pants, not having lost a single boy doing it._ She gave a chuckle. _Well, if they think they can cover something like this up forever, then all the U.S. government has in their pants is a nice big wad of paper that has 'Scott Garnet' written all over it._  
  
"Next!"  
  
It was then her turn. It was time. She took a deep breath as she was quietly ushered through the door by a young man in army fatigues.  
  
"Two questions." Meg held up her press card to the young man. The card was thankfully for the Associated Press, which the Journal was an affiliate of "Remember, two questions."  
"No problem, garcon."  
  
Another door was pushed; she came in just as the previous reporter went out. It was a small office space, one no more than seven feet wide on each side, filled with windows and two desks. The desks had been pushed to the sides of the room to leave space for two chairs.   
  
In one of these chairs was Maj. General Charles "Chuck" Yeager, the fastest man alive. He was seemingly robust even in his advanced age, robust, rosy-cheeked and silver-haired. He had a kind smile with white teeth (which Meg perceived to be dentures) which lit his wrinkled face up as he held his hand out to her. His pilot's uniform was without a single wrinkle; his soldier's cap was worn at a smart angle towards the left side of his face. He seemed the very image of an old hero in his waning years; a man with nothing left to prove, yet still soldiering on with the sheerness of his willpower just for the sake of living.  
  
"Please, sit down." He bade her to sit after they shook hands. "My goodness, I've had so many reporters come in and out so quickly! But time is short for me here; I have personal business to take care of after I finish, you see."  
"Of course, sir." Meg quietly switched her recorder on. "Its been a long day for both of us. Mine started this morning in New York City looking over some stocks."  
"That far away, huh?" The major general mused. "And you're looking at….stocks? You're a _financial_ reporter?"  
"I work for the Wall Street Journal."  
"Well, at least you started out with a salutation! These reporters come from far and wide to ask the same dumbass questions. 'How do you feel about your flight?' 'How did the original flight change your life?' The same bullshit, and at least ninety percent of 'em are 'Lifestyle' columnists. Nothing like variety, eh? Not even so much as a 'hello' from some of these people."  
  
_You want variety?_ Meg had to suppress flat-out laughing. _I'll give you variety. Don't you worry none._  
  
"So, lets get started." Meg searched for a question that would lull the old man's senses. She had forgotten how difficult interviews were. "So…….Do you have any memories you cherish from your times back here forty years ago?"  
"Oh…." The general chuckled. "Golly, I have quite a few. I especially loved working with Albert Boyd, God bless him."  
"Albert Boyd…?"  
"My boss on the X-1 project. He was an observant guy. He could spot things about situations that made things easier for all of us. Most of all he was a man of character. He could spot things about people that most men wouldn't normally notice. He may have been a ball breaker, but he used it for good. He didn't mess around like some men in his position did."  
"Hmm…Must have been very interesting to work with him, sir."   
  
It was the perfect opportunity for Meg. It couldn't have been better if it was handed to her on a silver platter. A general question from her, an answer from him involving a co-worker. She knew it was now time for what she had to ask.   
  
"Though….." Meg paused. "I must ask……how did it feel to work with Scott Garnet?"  
  
There was a sudden moment of silence at this. Meg knew she had him. Though his expression wasn't exactly a dead giveaway - Meg kept in mind that Yeager had always been known to be a man who was good at hiding his true expressions and feelings - the silence was. Meg kept the recorder rolling.  
  
"General?" Meg had to keep her delight down. "Sir?"  
  
Yeager's head went down. A small chuckle came from his lips.  
  
"I'm sorry……could you repeat that?"  
"…..Scott Garnet." Meg repeated. "Captain Scott Garnet. Hedgehog. You worked with him on the X-1 project, correct?"  
  
There was another long moment of silence. This time, there was no uncertainty for Meg She knew. She _knew_.  
  
She was hitting something big.  
  
"……Son if a bitch…."  
  
He chuckled again, bending his head down towards the ground. This time, however, his voice was shaking as he laughed, and slowly, the laugh turned into near-hiccups of shock. His hand went to his forehead, and when he rubbed away from his face, Meg's eyes could only widen.  
  
His fingers were wet.  
  
_He's…..crying?_  
  
"….I….." As Yeager spoke once more, his voice shook again. "I have to go now."  
  
Suddenly, he stood up, leaving Meg sitting alone in the room. He threw several quick, low words to the officer at the door, taking several deep breaths of composition as he did. After a minute of whispers back and forth, he left the room. Outside, Meg could hear the shocked tones of the reporters, followed by several shouts of protest and even yells of anger and protest. The interviews - as far as the general were concerned - were officially over.  
  
"All right madam." The officer motioned to the reporter. "I'm afraid your time is up."  
  
Without another word, Meg was escorted out of the room. She could feel the glares from her fellow reporters as she walked out; they began to disperse nevertheless, avoiding a fight with Meg in the process. It became so silent, so quickly, that the slamming of the door to the interview room nearly caused her to jump.  
  
At first, Meg was completely unbelieving of what had happened. She had never seen a man crumble so quickly, specifically not a man like Chuck Yeager. Chuck Yeager was a man who cheated death several times - he was a man who almost died in the French countryside under a hail of German fire. He was a man who broke several ribs in a horse-riding accident, with the marrow missing his heart my mere millimeters and yet still went on to break the sound barrier. He was a man who went into a tailspin at 30,000 feet and dropped almost 27,000 feet before regaining his controls just mere hundreds of feet off of the car. A man who stared into the face of hell so often doesn't just break down and cry. It wasn't characteristic of a military man to have emotion.  
  
Then it hit her.  
  
  
  
_A very long time ago - back when she was a young child - she had lived in Rome, a place that held a military base, an Air Force base. Her father had been in the Army for several years, and had seen combat at Normandy during the D-Day invasion. According to her mother, very few people in his company had survived the attack; at the end of the war, her father could count the number of survivors on his left hand. His disdain for armed combat, passed down to her, stemmed from this single fact.  
  
When Meg - or Margot, as her original name had been before she had it legally changed to Margaret (it was for reasons that were completely inane; she detested the thought that her name had sounded French) - was seven years old, her father had come home one day, crying. It had been sometime after school had started that year; she remembered that the leaves were starting to fall and that's how she knew. But her father, who was normally a strict, unrelenting man, had come home, sat down at the kitchen table, dropped a piece of paper onto the floor and began weeping violently.   
  
Margot would have laughed at the idea of her daddy crying - after all, boys didn't cry! - but her mother was instantly at the doorway, escorting her out of the room. Margot had been confused, until her mother told her that one of daddy's friends had gone to heaven that afternoon. She was sure it was a car accident of some sort, though she wasn't sure of the details even now; she never bothered to ask. She did, however, ask her mother exactly why her father was crying, to which her mother replied, "Men like your father have to cry when a man like Steve dies."  
  
For ten years, Margot had wondered what her mother could have meant. It would not be until after her father's death, when she was seventeen years old, that she learned. At her father's funeral, two men had come into the funeral home and sat next to her. One of them - short and stocky - had approached the podium and had given a eulogy.  
  
"Vincent was a great man," he had said. "I was proud to serve with him when we went to war; we had been in the same company when we went to Normandy. So many men died in our company..." His voice faltered. "He saved a lot of lives. But he never…..considered himself a hero…….he always thought that the man who was the real hero was our buddy Steve. He always said he owed Steve his life…."  
  
And then, like her father before, Margot had watched his man break down. It was that night she had pressed for answers from her mother, after seeing another show of emotion. And so her mother confessed; Steve was a man who had dragged Margot's father behind a bush on Omaha Beach after he had been injured by shrapnel after carrying several injured men out of the line of fire. Even though he risked his life doing it, Steve then proceeded to step in front of the bush - standing, in full view - to shoot back at the Nazis on the cliff. Miraculously, even though Steve had foolishly been in full view and an all-too-easy target for anyone who would have been able to pick him off, he did not receive a single nick or bruise on the entire face of his body.   
  
Her father, her mother had said, attributed this miracle to the fact that Steve had committed the unselfish act of putting his life on the line to preserve another - an act of heroism. When a military man is indebted that deeply, she had said, when you experience that type of selfless act of humanity, one could only mourn when such a special person was gone. It had been the same for the men at her father's funeral; they, after all, had been among the men whom he had been carrying out when he was injured._  
  
  
  
She understood. Men like Yeager didn't cry over men unless they owed a life-debt to them. Men like Yeager didn't cry over men unless they had risked their lives to save them…..or died trying.   
  
She couldn't believe it. It seemed impossible, and yet it had to be true. Through body language alone, Meg learned that Scott Garnet, Captain Scott Garnet, the husband of the writer of children's books, had known Chuck Yeager. Scott Garnet had been a part of the mission to break the sound barrier. And through a single tear, Meg was drunk on the realization that Chuck Yeager owed Scott Garnet a life debt from his time at Edwards back in 1947.   
  
_Then, if this was so…._ Meg was almost intoxicated. _Then the story about how Scott Garnet died…._  
  
She had the story; she had the motive to investigate. It was only a matter of permission to investigate from her asshole ex-husband. Then, she would be able to pursue this new venue of knowledge she had acquired. She hadn't felt this pumped up since she first started working; the sensation of the hunt filled her with warmth. She almost snuggled in her jacket - no, Scott Garnet's jacket - as she walked out of the building.  
  
It was no longer about embarrassing the government. It was no longer about upstarting the general. It was about uncovering a mystery.   
  
It was about Scott Garnet.  
  
  



	12. X

X  
  
October 12, 1947  
  
It started out as a simple horse ride.  
  
"Chuck!" He could hear Glennis laugh as she beckoned to him from ahead. "Come on over here, Chuck!"  
  
It was a nice, cool night in the desert, perfect for horseback riding. It was October; the weather temperatures in the area, particularly in the mountains and the forests around them, were dropping drastically. It was definite change over the past few months; there was no buzzing sound around them that night, no sweltering heat, no sweat clinging to the brows of the Yeagers as they explored the trails of the hills and peaks of the lower Sierra Nevada on rented horseback.  
  
"Well, well!" Chuck was at Glennis' side as he rode up from behind. He was on a bigger horse than she, a chestnut. "I daresay this is a brisk little ride you have here!"  
  
"I like Palmeros." Glennis grinned. "Especially these smaller types. You never can tell when these things are going to buck up and throw you to the floor!"  
  
The two then continued their climb up the forested trail. Soon, they were at the peak of their hill; they could see for miles around them. To the north, they could see the tiny caps of snow on the larger mountains in the distance, though these sometimes meshed in with the surrounding clouds and sky. To their south, east and west were the beginnings of the Mojave Desert, which glittered purple and blue in the dipping sunset.  
  
"If we look close enough," Glennis teased. "We may just see that bar of yours."  
  
"Now, Glennis, I-"  
  
*SNAP!*  
  
He heard the branch break on one of the larger trees; he did not see what had caused it. All he saw a glimmer of light, like the reflection of the sun on steel or metal. Then the horse bucked.  
  
"AAARGH!"  
  
He was airborne for about ten seconds; he was lifted high into the air, at least fifteen feet into the air. He could see Glennis' horse, just as she started to rear it around to see what was happening. He felt no sensation in his body as he flew; he only felt the wind as it whistled through his ears, as well as the ringing from the horse's startled neigh. He only saw the blues of the sky, and the greys of the clouds that dotted it. For one instant - he could not explain why - the feeling of flight, and the sky above him, almost made him feel like he was ascending into the heavens.  
  
Then he fell. *WHAM!!!!!*  
  
He felt everything simply shut down as he slammed into the tree. His head bobbed up and down for a moment as his neck took in the impact of the throw. Colors danced in front of his eyes from the tremendous whiplash he was receiving. Most of all, however, and most painfully, he could feel the bones in his chest snap and pop as he hit. The pain of it overtook him almost instantly; with a cry, he crumbled to the ground like a rag doll.  
  
"CHUCK!!!!!!!!!!" He heard Glennis' anguished, shocked screams, could hear her dismount from her horse and run to him. "CHUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"  
  
He opened his mouth to respond, but felt himself slipping. Before he could feel Glennis pull him up, set him down, and then mount her horse once more and gallop towards the outpost of the trail, everything had gone black.  
  
---------------------------  
  
"The situation's not good here, Albert." The general shook his head. "Among other people, we've got the administration tapping their feet and I've got the War Department breathing down my throat. The Secretary was not pleased with the report concerning the saboteur."  
  
"Yes, I know." Boyd slowly nodded at this. "And I'm sure the Marines down at Pendleton don't enjoy having Army hardware being stocked at their base, right?"  
  
"That's not the point." The general almost seemed to glare at Boyd. "The point is that someone is trying to destroy the mission on the inside, and no one is happy about it, least of all me."  
  
The meeting had been called in haste with the arrival of the general. Boyd hadn't even been expecting him; the fact that he had just been at Chuck Yeager's side after a frantic call from Glennis, up in the mountains near the base, only to find that Yeager...  
  
Boyd shut this out of his mind for the moment; he had the feeling it was only going to get worse before it got better.  
  
"With all due respect, sir, we're trying the best we can with locating the saboteur..in fact," The colonel leaned forward in his chair. "I've got a hunch as to who it is. I just need to figure out how to catch him in the act."  
  
"Well, I suppose that's fine and good with me, Colonel," The general shook his head. "But when you've got to personally tell the Secretary of War about there being this type of problem in the first place, you wouldn't be so self-assured. You don't want to be in my shoes with the shit hitting the fan."  
  
"What does he want?"  
  
"He wants Project Blue Gale done."  
  
"We'll have all the tests finished in another month and a half, sir; a month ahead of the time table. According to Bell, we still have to conduct several more resilience tests-"  
  
"No, Boyd." The general shook his head. "I mean he wants it done."  
  
Boyd looked at the general, not sure if he was really hearing what was being said. He rubbed his hand over his head.  
  
"Sir, you can't mean to tell me that-"  
  
"The Secretary wants the full, final report for his consideration on his desk in Washington by October 21st, Albert."  
  
"W..what?!" There was a shocked chuckle in Boyd's voice when he heard this. "You can't be serious. We haven't completely tested everything for post- Mach speeds! The engine and wing compression, in particular, is a problem that will take several weeks. I know he's seen the NACA reports along with my entries."  
  
"I know. I'm the one who gave them to him."  
  
"And now he wants it all done in less than two weeks?! What the hell kind of time table is that?!"  
  
"Listen, Boyd. This project is running on thin ice as it is." The general stood up. "Do you know how hard it was for me to get a timetable for the 21st, let alone any feasible projection from the Secretary? He wanted to send everyone home right this instant and cancel Project Blue Gale; he didn't want any more sabotaging and he has always had the notion that this technology is doomed to fail. We both know that nobody wants a military embarrassment - or worse, a cover-up - for the Soviets to play with and use to their advantage in the next several months." He turned back to the colonel. "You can do this; you've come very far very quickly since taking over the project. You have a flight scheduled two days from now, on the 14th, correct? Do what you have to do then and it's all you'll need to do. Get it over with."  
  
"Not anymore.at least, there won't be when I announce it to the men." Boyd's face darkened. "My primary pilot's been injured since two hours ago. He was in a horsing accident."  
  
"And you just came back from learning that?"  
  
"As a matter of fact, yes. I'm not sure of the extent of the damage, but he was in some pain."  
  
"But you have a back-up pilot."  
  
"Captain Scott Garnet?" Boyd shook his head. "I can't. He's got no time in the XS-1. I'd need at least a week to prep him to just get into the jet, let alone to fly it at the speed of sound."  
  
"Well, Boyd, you've got very little options left on the table." The general put a hand on the desktop. "And I don't understand why you didn't train your back-ups."  
  
"For two reasons, sir." Boyd looked up at the general. "First off, you and I both know its not standard procedure to train too many pilots for something as dangerous as this, and the War Department's timetable gave me no time to train more than one pilot properly to begin with. Secondly."  
  
"Secondly.?"  
  
".it was probable that one of the pilots was the saboteur at one point. I didn't want the saboteur to know how everything ran so they could simply blow all of the jets to kingdom come, sir."  
  
"Well, at this point," The general turned and walked to the door. "You and your pilot may be better off in kingdom come if you don't get this done. Remember, all you have now is seven days, colonel. Don't screw yourself over or its everyone's ass."  
  
With that, the general left, leaving Boyd to himself. The colonel could only growl with frustration after the man left; after several moments of brooding, he stood up.  
  
It was true; he really had no other choice at the moment. He didn't know the extent of Chuck's injuries, and he wasn't sure if Chuck himself knew. He had already ordered Yeager to take the week off and see a doctor if the pain didn't subside; that had been before the ultimatum. Now he didn't even have a week if he used Yeager.  
  
Boyd rubbed his temple. There was that, and the saboteur. He had a good idea - almost certain, in fact - of the identity of the saboteur. The problem was catching him in the act. There had been nothing since the fire last month; the saboteur had been smart enough to lay low since then, and he had been smart enough to get rid of traces of fingerprints or such. The question remained as to how to get him to reveal himself, to blunder, without endangering the crew. Unfortunately, Boyd knew that doing that would be virtually impossible. The saboteur was out for something and by the looks of what he was doing he didn't care if he killed the entire crew - Yeager in particular. Of course, if the injuries incurred from the last two attacks were any indication, the cocksucker was willing to take some collateral with him if necessary.  
  
At this, an idea began to form in Boyd's head. It was a terrible, horrible, radical, illegal idea that came to him, one he wouldn't have even dared to mull upon in normal circumstances. It was one that could not only result in the complete stripping of his rank and jail time, but in serious repercussions and even possible criminal action against the rest of the workers on Project Blue Gale. He knew who was doing all of the brazen acts against the base; he just needed to make for certain that it was the right guy. There was only one recourse to save what Boyd truly felt was the key to the future of the Army Air Force. That recourse was called entrapment.  
  
It was an idea that he didn't want to think of, especially at a moment when so much was already on the line. On top of all the legal action that could be taken if there was so much of a suspicion of Boyd playing the entrapment card, there was also the problem of the saboteur himself. Any indication that Boyd was onto the saboteur could completely blow everything out of the water - at least in catching the crook - and destroy what was left of Project Blue Gale. Trust and morale was significantly lower since the fire, and it showed; Boyd knew that even he was viewed with suspicion, even though he knew full well he wasn't the saboteur. Plus, he didn't think that the saboteur would be so presumptuous to think he could get away with anything if Boyd handed him an obvious chance to strike on a silver plate, wrapped with a bow. On top of that, if no one caught anything wrong, and someone went up in that plane...  
  
But the more he thought of his options, he realized that such a terrible move could be the only option to get in for the kill and possibly to save lives. The temptation of getting away with something like blatant sabotage would appeal to the attacker; from a psychological point of view, the colonel knew that, to a hell bent individual, it would be madness to waste an opportunity to prove a point. What was more, Boyd never once actually publicly pointed a finger at anyone and outright accused them (not even when he thought it was Hoover), and he was an expert of hiding his feelings without arousing suspicion. Plus, the plan he was formulating required a certain amount of innocent bureaucratic procedures that everyone had to comply with, from a signed log of everyone who guarded the hangar to permissions that everyone had to sign to even get onto the base, as a result of the attacks. He could easily make it look like he wasn't entrapping anyone; technically, the saboteur would be entrapping himself with items he had a hand in implementing.  
  
There was, however, one very important piece of this plan that had to be dealt with accordingly, and thoroughly, before anything else. And the colonel still had to inform him of the change of plans.  
  
-------------------------  
  
The sun was well below the mountains when Scott entered his room. He wore nothing but his brown undershirt, his military issue pants and his boots.  
  
"Jesus Christ..."  
  
He took several deep breaths, taking in the coolness of the shelter. It had been a long, hot day for the captain; with only two days left until the next flight, and so much work to do on the plane both inside the sweltering hangar and in the blistering sun, he was easily worn out. He had even drunken three full cantinas of water in less than an hour, and it only helped in soothing his head. His exposed skin was beet red to the point where his old scars were dark brown, and touching was not a good idea. He dropped onto his bed with an exhausted sigh, barely managing to kick his boots off.  
  
Man oh man..  
  
It had been sweltering hot the past several days on the base, sweltering and sticky. He had been wearing just his undershirt for the past five days, sometimes even being forced to take it off, which left him topless. It was to the chagrin and shock of some of his co-workers; after all, they had never seen a man with so many burn welts on his body in their lives. On the other hand, it didn't affect all of them; in fact, the "Nazi love taps" (as Ridley had come to call them) actually became a source of humor for some. Chuck himself told Scott just that afternoon, before taking off with his wife, that if the burns became any darker they'd have to classify Scott as a Negro.  
  
The humor helped. Before, Scott would have been embarrassed, even ashamed, to show them; they had been a source of humiliation for him, a sign of his terrible crimes in Salerno because two men died under his watch. Yet after talking to Ridley and Mary, Scott's disposition towards them changed. Neither had seemed disgusted of it, especially Mary, as she was basing her stories on something Scott thought would change how she felt about him. He thought she saw him as a monster for letting those men die since that night two years ago. But when he realized that Mary, in fact, admired him for admitting what had bothered him, he realized that he probably wouldn't fare much worse with his co-worker's reactions. They had, after all, fought in the same damn war.  
  
It wasn't just the scars from the war, either. Scott's mind slowly turned towards a more recent betrayal, one that had been real and even more personal than any he could have dreamt up. He still seethed at that man he had called father for what he did; out of everyone he had ever thought to hate, Hiram Garnet was the one man Scott knew he would never forgive for as long as he lived. In fact, Scott almost relished the fact that the old man was languishing, deteriorating, inside that overcrowded hospital out in San Ysidro, dying slowly and painfully - and most importantly, alone.  
  
To the young man, it was the least God could have done for what that disease of a human had tried to do to Mary and Sherry. Of course, Scott would have rather had his father shot in the head at point blank range and slung up on a tree branch where dogs and crows could systematically disembowel the remains, piece by infected piece. All of this while Scott watched, laughing with delight. But the fate Hiram was experiencing, though Scott did not yet comprehend anything about himself that his father had, was nevertheless satisfying to him.  
  
Mary.. A thought occurred to him as his eyes closed from exhaustion. I need to write to them. I haven't written in a wee-  
  
The sudden knock at the door interrupted Scott's thoughts. Instantly, Scott was up, out of bed and walking briskly towards the door. He opened it and nearly gave a start.  
  
"Colonel."  
  
'Captain Scott Garnet?' Boyd's face stared right into Scott's. "I need to speak with you."  
  
".Yes, sir."  
  
Scott was somewhat taken aback by the visit, as it was after working hours. It had to be important - practically a moment where the last thing Scott would expect to hear from Boyd's mouth would come out - if the colonel was visiting him alone at 2000 hours. Despite these thoughts of wonder, he snapped to attention and saluted as soon as the colonel entered his room.  
  
'Sir!'  
  
'As you were.' Colonel Boyd looked down. 'Captain, you're going to fly the Bell XS-1 on October 14.'  
  
Those were the last words Scott had expected, particularly as a first sentence. He opened his mouth to speak; at first, he couldn't speak.  
  
'....Sir...?'  
  
'..I need your help, Garnet." With a motion, Boyd sat Scott down. "Remember; everything I tell you is not to be repeated outside of this room until I tell you, right?"  
  
"Y..yes, sir."  
  
"You are going to fly in two days." Boyd bent over the boy, his hand clasping his sides. "I know what I'm about to ask you for next is going to be next to impossible, but hear me out. You're going to fly the XS-1 here at Muroe...and you're going to shoot for a speed of Mach 1.0 or better. Understood?"  
  
The words hit Scott from left field. Now this was the last thing he was expecting to hear out of Boyd's mouth, especially since he never even flown the damn thing.  
  
"..Do I understand you correctly, sir..?" Scott took a deep breath. "You're asking me to fly the XS-1 to the sound barrier...cold turkey. Am I correct to assume that, sir?"  
  
"Yes," Boyd began to pace. "That is exactly what I'm asking you."  
  
"May I ask permission to inquire why I'm being asked, sir?"  
  
"Because I told you to." Boyd looked at Scott. "That, and Yeager...was called up to a base up north for a week. They rejected my override to have him stay here at Muroe."  
  
It was a flat-out lie, but it was the only way. Boyd didn't want anyone to know the truth, at least not yet, because of the saboteur. Injuries afflicted onto primaries normally proved a useful advantage to such scum suckers. The truth of the matter was that Boyd was determined that few others were to even know Yeager was not going to be there at all on October 14th. In some ways, Boyd was hoping the saboteur would attack; if the saboteur thought that Chuck was still primary, it would be an added advantage for Boyd to spring a trap.  
  
"You're my only hope, Garnet." Boyd looked back up at him. "I know what I'm asking you is dangerous, even fatal. But..its not just Yeager. Its..a number of other things as well. If I just leave it at that, at the fact that you have to do this no matter what, I'm hoping it will be enough. Because of this, also.." Boyd looked directly into Scott's eyes. "I have to ask you that you tell no one that you'll be flying. No one is to know you're flying until the moment you open your mouth on vox as that B-29 drops the rocket into the sky. And before you enter that plane, you make sure you give it a good look so that's nothing's wrong. It is very important you do all of this for me. Do you understand what I'm asking of you, Garnet? For that matter...are you up for it?"  
  
"...Sir.."  
  
For a moment, Scott was not sure what to say. He did not understand why the colonel would be asking him to fly transonic and yet keep the fact that he was going fly such an important mission a secret. However, the strange feeling of excitement, the knowledge that he was to fly the XS-1 to Mach 1.0 - something within that feeling seemed to tell him to trust the colonel's unusual orders. Slowly, he nodded and saluted.  
  
"Yes, sir!"  
  
"Very well." The colonel turned and walked out of the door. "Dismissed."  
  
----------------------  
  
As he left, Boyd accidentally slammed the door behind him. He felt sheepish in not going back to apologize to the captain, but he knew he couldn't. He had work to do, and little time to do it in. His mind went over the names of other officers, and other men, as he left the barracks. He was going to call a meeting, and he was going to announce the 13th's sentry - the saboteur - tomorrow.  
  
But nothing would be said of Scott. As far as the saboteur was concerned, Chuck was flying. Boyd was almost confident he would have wanted it that way.  
  
Almost.  
  
-----------------------  
  
Indeed, the next day passed by with little, if any, mention of Yeager by anyone on the ground crew. No one, save for Boyd and Scott, actually knew or had a clue of the change of plans.  
  
"Hey there, Hedgehog!"  
  
Scott turned around to face the speaker. He was working on screwing in several loosened bolts in the undercarriage of the XS-1; it was not abnormal to check them before flights to ensure that the flaps didn't open and let the Black Betsy engine fall out from its place.  
  
"Long time no see!" Capt. Bud Anderson, accompanied by Redson and Ridley, walked over to him with a big smile on his face. "You and the boys excited? Chuck's going to be making history tomorrow!"  
  
"Its actually at midnight tonight, my friend - its also our first night test. We just got the news!" Ridley whistled. "Boyd must be really confident in Chuck."  
  
"Ha, Chuck? He'll probably just laugh and it'll be over in twenty seconds." Bud turned back to Scott. "So, what do you think? You happy too?"  
  
"Yeah..." Scott smiled. "Can't wait, Bud."  
  
"Uh huh." Redson had his Bowie knife out, and he was twirling it in between his fingers. "I bet you're like me; you can't get wait to get out of here."  
  
"Baah, you know you like Barnes' place, Johnny!" Bud chuckled. "You with your friend 'Margarita.'"  
  
"I don't drink margaritas, I'm afraid.." Redson ran his fingernail on the side of the blade, flicking off a speck of rust as he did. "Not strong enough for me, I'm afraid. Hate to disappoint you."  
  
"Ha! Finally, a drink Redson hates." Ridley pat Scott on the back. "Well, we'll leave you alone for the moment, and we'll go and get the tower ready for tomorrow, eh?"  
  
"Uh..sure." Scott nodded. "Sounds nice."  
  
"Right then."  
  
With a nod, the three left, leaving Scott in complete disbelief. It was mostly at himself; he had not once felt inclined to tell them that Yeager was not flying the next day. He was not sure why he didn't want to tell them, Boyd's orders notwithstanding. The truth was, he wanted to tell everyone he knew that he was going to fly. As he pondered, several strange, even disturbing possibilities came to mind about his feelings.  
  
The first possibility, naturally, was that he wanted the glory, but not they attention. He wanted to fly; he had always wanted to fly the XS-1. And now, Boyd was letting him on the condition he say nothing about him doing it. By not saying anything and doing his job, therefore, would make him more modest, seem more trustworthy to do bigger and better things after the completion of Project Blue Gale. And if he landed Mach 1.0 on his first shot..his first ride.  
  
No... Scott slowly shook his head. That doesn't sound right..That's not it.  
  
At this, the strange feeling, the strange, excited feeling that had pervaded him the whole time he had been at Muroe, began to come back. This time, however, it felt different. It was not as exciting as it had been before; the sensation somehow felt dulled, and it seemed to churn his insides and almost made him sick. It so took him by surprise that he had to close his eyes, turn his head slightly, and swallow before he could open his eyes and feel better.  
  
When he opened his eyes, he spotted the three men - Anderson, Ridley and Redson - in the middle of walking into Boyd's office, the sun directly on their backs, which were faced towards Scott's direction. For reasons he could not understand, their shapes seemed distorted and wavy, like a mirage, yet hazier than a normal illusion. The area around them started to look redder, almost as if the desert heat had set them on fire. And one of them...one of them looked darker.  
  
What in... Scott blinked in disbelief. Is that...  
  
He could not discern which one of them was turning darker; they were too far away. Nor could he understand why the redness around the three almost seemed to shrink until it was centered on the darkened figure. He had to be seeing things, but not matter how hard he blinked, or rubbed his eyes, the illusion did not go away. And the figure still grew darker, the area around him growing redder until it truly could have been fire around them if it had been real.  
  
Finally, the figure's silhouette was darkened to the blackest shade of color that Scott had ever seen with his naked eyes. Fire surrounded the figure as the black, with no shadows, no light, started to swirl around him. But it wasn't swirling, it was fluttering in the wind. It was like a cloak, and where the figure's head was, a cloak.  
  
For one instant, even though he was not a very religious type, Scott could have sworn he saw the shadow of death standing in front of Boyd's door. It could only have been a reaper from beyond, come to take someone back with him; the flames of the afterlife, a fire of damnation (or was it the flames of the sun?) encircling him. In his hand was the glittering scythe, which he would use to cut down his victim upon touch. Scott almost had a mind to run over and warn them; one of them was going to die, and how he knew was seeing death at Boyd's door.  
  
"Hedgehog!"  
  
Scott blinked again. The figure, the flames, the other two pilots - all of it vanished that time.  
  
"There you are." The captain gave a sign of relief as a crewman - a sergeant - walked over and handed him a folded piece of paper. "I've been looking for you for twenty minutes. Colonel Boyd wanted me to give it to you."  
  
"..Thank you, sergeant." Slowly, Scott took the paper.  
  
"No problem, sir...sir?" The boy looked at him. "You ok, sir?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"You jumped a bit when I called you, sir. And you look a little...startled." The sergeant began to look concerned. "You ok, sir?"  
  
Scott took a deep breath. He looked down at the paper, then back up, then finally towards Boyd's office. There was nothing there now.  
  
"Perfectly fine, sergeant."  
  
------------------------  
  
Despite his reassurances, the vision was still on Scott's mind as the sun began to set behind the mountains.  
  
My god... Scott almost drove off the road in his mind wandering. That seemed too real. It was real. It had to be.  
  
It had been several hours since he had seen it; now, he was on his way to a gas station nearly an hour out of the base, practically in Los Angeles. The note Boyd had given him was one of recommendation; as he was going to undertake an ambitious (and dangerous) flight, the colonel thought it prudent that Scott should be allowed to call his family beforehand. Because there were no phones at the base, Scott would have to go somewhere else to make the call. Plus, he had to so it without saying anything of the nature of his work, of course; on the other hand, Scott wanted to give Mary and Sherry an idea that he was going to do something incredibly big in less than five hours.  
  
Maybe I should go to Chuck and Glennis' and place the call there.would cost less, and give me more time.. Scott fingered the change in his pocket. No. Chuck's not there, and it'd be rude after what my dad did.  
  
Any further thought of going to the Yeager residence was banished the moment he spotted the gas station. It was a beat up, obviously local place; the only other person there, it seemed, was the clerk. It was the perfect place for the call.  
  
Without another word, Scott put on the brake and pretty much leaped out of the car. He had been smart to bring his jacket with him, as it was starting to get a little cold for him. Adjusting his jacket and zipping it up, he went though the door.  
  
"Howdy." Behind the counter was an old man wearing a greasy shirt, his white hair slicked back. "You need gas?"  
  
"Uh...no." Scott spotted what he was looking for and pointed. "I just need to use your phone for a few minutes?"  
  
"Uh huh." The man nodded. "Go on. Not like there's a line or nothin', kid."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Quickly, he entered the corner booth where the phone lay and closed the door behind him. Fumbling with the change in his pocket, he inserted seventy-five cents into the machine and began to dial his home number. He tapped his fingers against the side of the phone as the ringing began.  
  
"...*click* Hello.."  
  
"Mary." Scott's heart stopped. "Mary, I-"  
  
"I'm sorry." The voice sounded annoyed. "You need seventy-five cents for me to connect the call. Its long distance."  
  
"..Operator?"  
  
"You need seventy-five cents, sir."  
  
"..Of course. Hang on."  
  
With a huff, Scott quickly produced seventy-five more cents. He knew full well that many operators grew impatient with customers and would hang up if the correct amount of change was not provided as soon as possible.  
  
"The rates have gone up," he mumbled as he inserted three more quarters. "I should be good to go."  
  
"Of course, sir." The voice suddenly became chipper. "Please hold. I'll put you through to that number. You'll have five minutes before you have to insert seventy-five cents to continue your call."  
  
Oh, I'll put you through something, lady, Scott thought to himself as the phone resumed ringing. Finally, after several rings, there was an answer.  
  
"...*click* Hello?"  
  
"..Mary." Scott was completely relieved at hearing her voice. "It's me, Scott."  
  
".Scott?" Mary's voice was surprised. "How are you calling me? I thought you weren't allowed to?"  
  
"Well.." Scott hesitated. "My boss let me this time."  
  
"You telling the truth, Hedgehog?"  
  
"You bet I am." Scott smirked. "If I wasn't, I'd be dead."  
  
"Eheh.."  
  
"Um." Scott knew that was the wrong thing to say. "How are you doing?"  
  
"Good, but tired." Scott could hear two faint thumps in the background. Those, he reasoned, were her shoes. "I've been working since 7 this morning. I just got in the door. Can you believe it?"  
  
"Yeah, I can." Scott paused. "Look, I haven't much time, but...is Sherry awake?"  
  
"'Fraid not, Hedgehog." She took a deep breath. "She was asleep when Mrs. Cianfracco left a few minutes ago. It's a little more difficult without someone more static looking after her, of course, and she's a bit upset about..well, you understand. I'm.still not sure how to explain it."  
  
There was an eerie pause after this. Scott had to bite down hard on his lip so that he would not go crazy on the subject of his father. Mary and Sherry didn't need to know the full story, didn't need to know what he knew.  
  
"Well...Mary.." Scott knew he was running out of time. "Just tell her..daddy's coming home very soon, and that..he's going to be doing something incredible for the people he's working for. That's..all I can say right now. You understand.."  
  
"..Yeah..."  
  
"I'm coming home, Mary." Scott nodded. "Within the week. And when I get ho- "  
  
"*click* Please insert seventy-five more cents, sir."  
  
"Ga..God..DAMMIT!"  
  
Scott had to scramble to get the change into to machine; he almost jammed it in. Fortunately, he was quick enough, and had to give a sigh of relief when Mary's laughing came through the receiver.  
  
"Bitch." Mary took in a deep breath. "It was only four minutes!"  
  
"I seem to be having problems with her. I don't care if she can hear me." Scott took in a deep breath. "Well...when I get home...I'm going to take you, and Sherry, and we'll do something."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"..I don't know." Scott chuckled. "Something. Maybe go to Canada for the week, or Pennsylvania. Maybe drive to Niagara Falls. Do something to celebrate, when I come back, if you get a book deal. I don't know. Just something."  
  
"But not California."  
  
"No." Scott shook his head. "Of course not.."  
  
"Well.." A yawn came from Mary. "Well, I'll be seeing you soon then. I need to be getting to bed."  
  
"Right then." Scott smiled. ".I love you, Mary. And tell Sherry I love her too."  
  
"Right back to you, Hedgehog." It was obvious Mary was going to bed a happy woman. "Good night."  
  
Scott was practically beaming when Mary hung up. He hung up before the operator could again insult him; then again, he was, at the moment, too happy to care. He couldn't wait to get home.  
  
--------------------------  
  
The night in which October 13 passed on to become October 14 was still, clear and cold. There was little wind on the ground, if any, as the XS-1 was carted out into the open field, which was lit by field lights.  
  
"Ok.." Ridley and several others pushed the jet inside the B-29. "There! Finished!"  
  
"Think we should do another check on it, Jack.?"  
  
"Nope." Ridley shook his head and waved his hand. "I checked it with Boyd about ten minutes ago. Nothing was in it, no nails, no nothing."  
  
"Hmm." Redson rubbed his chin. "Screw's a bit loosened."  
  
"Ah, ok." Ridley handed Redson a screwdriver. "Just screw it in."  
  
"Right."  
  
With that, Redson took the screws and tightened them as far as he could. So tight were the screws that he almost snapped the screwdriver in half.  
  
"Aw, damnit."  
  
"No harm, no harm." Ridley chuckled. "We wouldn't want the flap to open in mid-air, right?"  
  
"Of course not..damn, that hurt," Redson swore as he wriggled his hand. He stood up and walked off. "'Scuse me.I think my hands bleeding.."  
  
"At least it didn't jam into your eye..Oh!" Ridley looked up. "Hedgehog! There you are.."  
  
Ridley's voice slowly trailed off as Scott walked forward into full view. Ridley's expression became shocked as Scott, dressed in complete pilot clothing and smocked in his pilot jacket, walked forward with a cockpit helmet tucked under his arm. Behind him was Boyd, his face solemn as he walked with his hands behind his back.  
  
"H..Hedgehog?" Ridley crimped an eyebrow in surprise. "What's going on?"  
  
"Chuck's not here."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Chuck," Boyd looked at Ridley. "Is not here. Garnet will be flying this one."  
  
Scott's face did not convey his secret excitement; it instead conveyed seriousness, perhaps even sadness, at Yeager's absence. In some ways, he truly was sorry Yeager was not there; even at this hour, flying cold turkey was still not exactly something Scott preferred.  
  
"Sir..." Ridley stepped forward as other ground crew members looked on. "Do you think this is a good idea?"  
  
"I'm afraid, Jack," Boyd replied. "That I have little choice. I'll explain it to you once Garnet's in the air."  
  
"..Yes, sir." Ridley slowly nodded. "I.understand."  
  
"In the meantime, get him in." Boyd turned back. "Let's go. Time is not on our side."  
  
Ridley looked at Scott, confused, as he led Scott up the platform and into the plane. Slowly, Ridley unlocked the cockpit door and stepped aside. Slowly, Scott began to climb in.  
  
"Scott." He felt Ridley's hand on his arm. "How long have you known you were doing this one?"  
  
"...Last night, Jack." Scott looked down. "He told me...Yeager wasn't doing it."  
  
"Do you know why?"  
  
"..To tell the truth, no." Scott looked up. "Boyd just said he was doing army business."  
  
"...No." Ridley shook his head. "I don't buy it. But whatever. It doesn't matter.." Ridley looked at Scott. "But its just like operating a normal plane; all of the panels are the same. Just don't accelerate fast like Crazy Yeager does and don't do crazy sideshow shit. Take your time, and watch your altitude - if you go too high, the engine might stop. It's easy beyond that."  
  
".Thank you, Jack."  
  
Nodding, Scott took a deep breath as he closed the hatch beside him. He put his helmet on with a firm hand and flipped on the switches. He had spent three months studying the controls for the ground crew, and memorized what Chuck had to do. He had to turn it on just as the hatch of the B-29 carrying opened off to ignite it at the right time. Too soon, the B-29 would go on fire; too late, he would start freefalling. After that, it was a matter of staying in the air and accelerating until he got to Mach 1.0. He'd have wind resistance along the way, but he always had that on a flight, and if the modifications held, the resistance would not be so much of a hinderance.  
  
He gave a nod as he felt the B-29 start to lift. He could do this; he just had to be careful.  
  
"XS-1," Anderson's voice came over the speaker. "Take note, I will be checking your speed after drop-off. Over."  
  
"Roger," Scott found the plane's microphone. "This is XS-1. Taking note of that, over."  
  
"We are at 1,000 feet now, base, command, over."  
  
Scott took several deep breaths as the plane went higher into the sky. He took swallows to keep his ears popping, and waited. He couldn't get excited now; that could wait until later, when he was back on the ground. Right now, he had to concentrate, and concentrate hard on the job ahead of him.  
  
"Command, we are at 20,000 feet, over."  
  
"Get ready, Captain," Boyd's voice came back on. "You'll be dropping in less than two minutes. Stand by, over."  
  
"Copy that, over."  
  
Scott clasped onto the wheel in front of him with a small bit of nervousness. It was almost time for him to start, almost time to begin the flight. He had to do it, and he had to do it right. Somehow he knew there was only one shot for him to succeed. So if there was ever a time to get scared, now was not the time.  
  
"Command, we are at 28,000 feet." Scott licked his lips as he heard the loud whine of the rotors on the trap door under him. "Proceeding to drop at your command, over."  
  
"Drop command given. Begin flight. Over."  
  
The black of the night met him as he looked down, and the next thing he knew, he was falling into blackness. There was no light up where he was, just the sound of the wind as he fell.  
  
Then he caught himself. Scott's hand immediately went for the jet ignition.  
  
*FOOOOOOOM*  
  
The sky instantly lit up as the volatile Black Betsy fired up and brought the XS-1 to life. There was a instant jolt, and Scott found himself plastered to his seat, trying vainly to control the bird.  
  
"Garnet, this is control." Boyd's voice was calm. "You're a bit unstable up there. Lower the acceleration level on the engine by two and you'll have a much smoother ride, over."  
  
"C-copy that."  
  
Instantly Scott's free hand was on the knob. Seconds later after turning it, the bird was his. The steering stick was still a little stiff, as that was exposed under him and was subjected to the winds, but Scott found that it was much easier to move and control.  
  
"Command, this is Garnet." Scott gave a sigh of relief. "I have control now, over."  
  
"Roger."  
  
"Flight, I am gauging speed." Anderson's voice came on. "We are at .21 Mach, over."  
  
"Copy. Good luck, Garnet, and take your time, over."  
  
"Roger."  
  
And so Scott did just that. As a result, the flight lasted for almost and hour and forty minutes. It was the longest flight recorded by Project Blue Gale - and, in the long run, the most eventful.  
  
It was mostly Scott's inexperience that contributed to the long flight. Unlike Yeager, who had months in advance training under his belt, Scott had little more than the basics of how wind resistance worked in this type of jet, at least in practice. He knew that the faster one went, that worse the wind resistance, the 'sonic wind', got, but he had never actually gotten into the cockpit of the XS-1 before that night to try it out. Therefore, at every tenth increment, he found it more difficult to steer and control the jet, and so he took five to ten minutes to get used to flying faster. When he felt he had mastered it, he would then accelerate slowly from the accustomed speed to newer, faster levels.  
  
"We are at .85 Mach, Garnet. Over!"  
  
Scott felt the excitement rise within him, just as could hear it with Anderson. It took everything he had to suppress it, and even then, he felt the thrill of his escalating speed almost explode from within his very being.  
  
..Yes... For a second, Scott's mind wandered, and wondered, all at once, getting itself lost in the slight shuddering of the plane. This..feels like..what I am supposed to do. This was what I was born to do. This is what my life has led up to..  
  
As soon as the thought came, he had to shake them out of his head. It was not the right time for celebration. Better men had died at the point he was at. He just had to go faster.  
  
Yet Scott knew that this was the ride of his life, and despite his inexperience, he pressed forward towards his goal. Slowly, he did go faster. And he pressed on. The closer he came, the lower he went towards the ground. Everything was so tiny, even from 10,000 feet; if he hasn't been flying, Scott would have pretended he was God looking down upon the darkness just before he said "Let there be light". He figured he probably wouldn't have been the first. And so faster he went.  
  
Soon, it was only a matter of minutes, maybe even seconds; he was already almost up to Yeager's fastest trial. Now came questions in Scott's mind. What would happen at Mach 1.0? Would he simply fly through it? Would he lose power from going so fast? No one knew, least of all the pilot. All the pilot knew was that he just had to go faster. It had been a bumpy ride, and it had been a difficult stick to play with. All in all, though, Scott knew it had been a relatively smooth ride with practically no problems. And it would be a story to tell when he got back on the ground.  
  
Then, from out of nowhere, just as he began to make a turn towards the mountains in the north, he felt the violent shudder under him. *FOOOOOM!*  
  
He was at .99 Mach; he was so close. And then the plane rocked violently. It felt as though the engine had suddenly exploded under him. Suddenly, he lost control of the stick.  
  
"SHIT!!!!!!!!!!"  
  
"Garnet?!" Boyd's voice came on. "Garnet, what's wro-"  
  
*FOOOOOOOOM!!!*  
  
Scott gave a shout of fear as the chain reaction began without notice. First the engine combusted; he could tell because smoke began to fill the cabin. Then, his legs were being consumed by the flames that began to pour in from below. The heat and the flames built up so fast that the metal of the chair was melting onto him, and his helmet began to weld onto his head like sheet metal. He screamed in pain; the flames instantly became more intense, the pain unbearable.  
  
"GARNET! YOU'RE BREAKING UP! EJECT! EJECT!"  
  
The radio came in like distant, worthless static. The screams from his superiors did little good; his hands were welded onto the steering stick of the plane like glue to paper. The flames roared around him like an endless inferno. He was trapped.  
  
"GAR--*BZZZ*--RE-*BZZZZHMMMMMMM-CLK*"  
  
The radio was gone. The flames were greater. He could feel more flames leap onto his arms, creating the smell of burning flesh. He choked as he felt the skin literally peel off of his body, could feel things on his person melting. The tears began to come to his eyes from all the pain. From knowing.  
  
He knew. The plane was about to explode. Everything he thought he had done right was wrong, and nothing could save him now.  
  
All he could do, as his life flashed before him, was scream.  
  
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!"  
  
Scott running into the water  
  
Help me dad mom can't swim  
  
Look I won dad hug  
  
Mary  
  
Oh yes  
  
No Shelley  
  
No  
  
Mary  
  
Yes  
  
No  
  
Miles  
  
Max don't leave  
  
*BOOM THUUUUUM THUUUUUUM*  
  
Chuck this bird  
  
Damn you dad  
  
Boom BOOM  
  
Goodbye Scott  
  
Good bye  
  
Scott  
  
Scott  
  
Scooooot  
  
Hedgehooooog  
  
....Scott...Hedgehog...  
  
His head jerked up at the sound of his voice. The flames still surrounded him, but suddenly, there was no pain.  
  
"Hedgehog..."  
  
He looked towards the dashboard, but there was nothing there in the flames. Simply white, and two figures in front of him. Two figures, shadowed in the light  
  
"Come on." One of them held out their hand. "Its time to go."  
  
"Time..." The roar of the flames was a distant sound. "Am I..I..I can't be..."  
  
"It depends upon your definition, Sonic."  
  
"...Sonic? Who are you and why..."  
  
Suddenly, their faces looked towards Scott, and he almost gave a cry of shock. It was them.  
  
"Max...Miles..!"  
  
They were there; but they were different. Their forms, Scott could decipher, were no longer that of any living man, though their forms were covered by a cloak of what looked like a night sky filled with stars. In the light, it was hard to tell what they were, but it was obvious to him what was going on. They had been dead, and now he knew.  
  
"It really is my time, isn't it.death, it was for me, wasn't it? The death I saw...this afternoon.."  
  
Suddenly, the light dissipated, and no longer was Scott in the burning plane, his hands welded into the wheel, the smell of burning flesh stinging his nose. Instead, the smell of coffee and cheap cigarettes suddenly filled the air.  
  
"It depends upon how you define time, Hedgehog."  
  
"Huh?!" Scott's eyes widened. "Where.."  
  
"How can you define time when it doesn't exist?" The Max figure spoke, his accent as heavy as it has been in life, as the scene of an Italian coffee house materialized all around them. "There's no time here. Nothing to prevent you from coming back."  
  
"Coming back? How..how do you mean back?" Scott cocked his head. His hair almost dipped into the cup of a passing waitress. "You can't return when you're dead."  
  
"Is that so?" Miles' voice came through. "We may have shed our original bodies, but now, we are again alive. Thanks to you."  
  
"Me?"  
  
Scott sat down in the ethereal café, not quite sure how to make of what was going on. As he did, he splintered his hand on the table. The pain of the wood in his hand nearly made him yelp.  
  
I have to be dreaming...this couldn't be real. It's just too real to be death, for God's sake.  
  
Then he looked and saw two figures. One was male, one was female. Both were at least in their fourties, if not fifties. They looked at him, smiled, and waved.  
  
"Buenvenudo!"  
  
The Italian word nearly floored Scott. He looked again at the café he was in and realized. Realization brought back the one word he had always dreaded, even after his night with Mary several weeks ago, came to him. Termoli.  
  
"Death is real." Suddenly, the two figures were sitting with him. Max's voice came through. "It's a lot like life, only when you die, you are no longer tied down to certain human emotions, like hate or anger. Because when you pass, you realize that you are not that evil person you thought you were, with all of the enemies you thought you had. It goes the same with those who thought they were always righteous."  
  
"But death is different from life in that we live knowing what we truly did right," Miles continued, "and what we truly did wrong. When that happens, we become ourselves, and when we are ourselves there is no boundary between life and death."  
  
"And in death, we truly become ourselves when we see the one who gave us the ability to forgive, when we are tied by a thread to someone who is truly special." The figure that had Max's voice looked at Scott. "And no matter what you say, Sonic, you are not evil. You never were evil. Just human."  
  
"I..." Scott looked at the two of them, unable to comprehend. "Why are you calling me Sonic? And why am I so special?"  
  
"Because you are the one whom united us, even though you don't realize it, Sonic." Despite his confusion, Scott somehow began to again experience the feeling of excitement start to bubble up in him for reasons he still did not understand as Miles spoke. "When we were as humans, you befriended us and did us our favors. You left me to my quiet death when we crashed. During those last minutes when that happened, I saw a vision of your future, and of mine. That I would live forever in a land beyond that is not unlike the living world, with its own struggles and battles. A place where we could visit an everlasting paradise and through its magic still inhabit bodies of the flesh. I had no friends before I met you, and the thought that perhaps I could see you again in a new form made me smile."  
  
"It was the same for me." Max's voice spoke again. "When you were my prison charge, you took those injuries for me. And when the assault on Termoli began, I was wounded mortally. I knew I could not be saved, and I was afraid of death. But then I looked up, and saw Miles beckoning me to follow to that place beyond. I never knew him, but somehow I realized it was because of you that he was beckoning me. So I, too, smiled when I realized I had another friend."  
  
"And when we met here, we realized we were still missing you. So we waited. Then, your wife began to tell the tale of a strange little hedgehog who was boastful but innocent, and of his many friends." Scott's eyes widened. "It was then we knew why we had met. It was because we were to meet again, here, but in newer, purer bodies than what we had inhabited in our previous lives. We would fight on for everyone, both real and imaginary, and for that inner excitement and freedom we could never experience in our own lifetimes. This is a freedom you, Hedgehog, could have only achieved in finally battling the sonic wind; not just the resistance of nature, or even of just technology, but also the resistance of inevitable change. Not just for us, but..for the whole world, even."  
  
"The resistance of change.." Scott closed his eyes. "So my whole life, then..was leading up to this one moment? Am..Am I supposed to change now or something?"  
  
"..You already have, Hedgehog."  
  
Scott opened his eyes at this. He realized that Max, in whatever form he was in, was right. He had the feeling as to what forms his friends had ultimately taken, and he almost smiled at that.  
  
"So this isn't just a dream.." He reached out his hand towards Max's form. He had to see. "So now what do I do to complete what I must do?"  
  
"Simple."  
  
The cloaks the two wore then disappeared, and Scott could see them clearly. He had been right; they were no longer human. They were something else, something..cooler. He didn't know why the wording came to his mind like that, and a small part of him still doubted that what he was seeing was not human, not animal, but both. It was Max, a bright red echidna-human thing, and Miles, an orange fox-human thing.  
  
Yet even his doubt, as small as it was, felt drawn into whatever it was that had them all as he touched Max's face. It was smooth, soft, even furry. He did the same to Miles' face, with the same results. They looked back at him, smiling as he did this.  
  
It was in feeling how warm, how alive these two spirits were, and felt - because of him - and knowing that they had died because of him, and yet they had welcomed him with open arms that he knew. It was in seeing how they smiled at him, bringing him to a place that should have held so much pain - and yet the Italian shop owner and his wife smiled at him as he looked and caught their gaze - that he knew. It was in seeing how they had come to him on the threshold of the world of the living and the world of drifting souls at such an hour of seeming finality to tell him they he was the one whom had done such good things that he knew. It was in all of these things combined, seeing all that was going on, being at what should have been the wrong place at the wrong time, that he knew. There was no turning back. There was no more reason to turn back. There was no more Scott.  
  
"Let go, Sonic. Its time to let go."  
  
*KA-THOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM*  
  
It was a loud, deafening explosion that clapped and echoed through the mountain, through the base, through a surrounding radius of three miles, one that sounded like that which was heard when a speeding car slammed headfirst into a wall. It was a sonic boom; it was the sound of something breaking through a force of nature, defying the will of everything that stood in man's way since the beginning of time. It was up where gods supposedly dwelled and ruled the very fate of humanity, even as man clung to life and surged ahead to the day when it could defy those gods that said that no man should break the sound barrier, lest the sonic wind tear them to pieces. Yet the plane itself did not make it.  
  
For a moment after, it was like a Fourth of July fireworks display in the night sky. It was a menagerie of many colors; blue, red, yellow, white and orange sparks flew about in giant cascades and sparks over the mountains. The nucleus of the explosion was a bright orange and yellow, the exploding flames pulsing out like a nova star, several hundred feet in all directions. The spectacle lit up the California night sky for miles; for one single moment, it was as bright as day, and all of the desert colors sparkled under the horrendous light.  
  
Then it fell. Like a comet, the X-1, so close to its goal that its pilot could touch the sound barrier with his fingers, fell to the earth below. Smoke simply billowed from the falling jet like a stack, covering the night sky with a black haze. It spiraled out of control, and the remains simply shot towards the mountains. Anywhere the wreckage fell, there was a small explosion, and a fire; none rivaled the one which first started it all.  
  
And watching it all with complete and utter horror were the men on the ground. They all stared, their mouths simply open with total disbelief. He had been close. He had been so close. And suddenly...there had been no warning. There had been no sign that something was to happen. No omens to the other crewmen. Nothing.  
  
"HEDGEHOG!!!!!!!!" Bud's voice nearly shattered the speakers inside the tower. He had been closest to the explosion; he almost went down with it. His voice squeaked vainly as he tried to get an answer. "HEDGEHOG! SPEAK TO ME, MAN! SAY SOMETHING!"  
  
*CLUNK!*  
  
The dispatch speakers made a thump, followed by feedback, as the microphone simply dropped out of Boyd's fingers. Everyone turned to look at him; his face spoke volumes, as he was not an emotional man. His mouth was moving, as if to form words, but none came out. His eyes simply stared out the windows at the spectacle before him. For several minutes, everything was eerily silent.  
  
Finally, he spoke.  
  
"...Go get Yeager."  
  
"W..what?" Jack Russell, Bell's officer, turned to Boyd. "Colon-"  
  
"Get him." Boyd's voice shook slightly, but that was all the emotion he'd let slip. "He's at his base housing near Los Angeles."  
  
Russel stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Then, slowly, and with constant glances up towards the lit sky, he stumbled blindly out of the room. 


	13. XI

****

XI

  
  
  
_October 14, 1987_  
  
  
"Come on......goddamnit....."  
  
Meg's fist smacked the plexiglass window of the phone booth as the busy chime bleeped into her ear. She took several deep breaths to compose herself, and then put in another five dollars.  
  
_Come on, you horse's ass....._ Meg's mind thought of George with disdain. _Stop talking and pick up your fucking phone!_  
  
She had to get through to him. No matter what happened, it was completely imperative that she made contact with him. She knew he would be pissed; it was always that way for her whenever she called him. At the moment, though, she didn't care.  
  
"**George Rye's office.**"   
  
It was his secretary. No, the voice was too young to be professional. It was an intern, the _slut-du-jour_. Her name didn't matter because it was a constantly rotating post; it was a new voice each time Meg picked up the phone.   
  
"**Ms. Landau speaking.**"  
"Get me Mr. Rye immediately."  
"**I'm sorry, Mr. Rye is in a meeting.**"  
  
Meg's eyes furrowed at this. She went to speak, but was interrupted by a loud popping sound. It was like a peel of bullets echoing in the valley and in the desert, and it made her jump. It took her several seconds to recover, and to find her pulse once more. She realized what it was that made the sound shen she heard the muffled cheers of the standing audience several hundred feet away.  
  
"**Hello?**" Seeing the X-15, the one she was positive a certain General Yeager had commandeered to fly beyond the sound barrier, the next second, almost caused her to lose the call. "**May I take a message? Hello?**"  
"Ok...." Meg decided to abandon the formal approach; she knew her ex enough to know wasn't at a meeting. He was just having lunch. "Listen here, _bitch._ You will do what I ask because you are his intern, correct?"  
"**Yes.**" The voice was shocked. "**But I be-**"  
"Then get me George." Meg's voice became dangerous. "I know where he is. I know he can take my call. So if you don't give me to him, I will make sure the New York Times knows all about how George rams it up your bony, underaged ass. And trust me, kid, he knows full well I'd do it because I've done it before. Its why we divorced."  
  
There was a moment of complete, horrified silence as the last of Meg's venomous words dripped from her mouth. Finally, there was a click, and the phone began to ring.  
  
_Figures..._ Meg was gleeful at the success, and nearly laughed. _Stupid little twat. They all are._  
  
Meg, if nothing else, knew her ex very well and could get his attention. The truth was that, indeed, the constant mistresses caused the divorce, and there had been a nasty expose in the works in the New York Daily during the divorce to show George's more carnal side. Sadly for Meg, the expose was scrapped when George sued, then settled, on the condition that the Daily would never delve into his private life again. Of course, Meg always knew other alternatives to getting what she wanted, and when she used them she got a good chunk of that settlement as the wronged wife.   
  
"**.....Meg.**" Finally, George's rather angry voice came on. "**What the _hell_ is wrong with you?! This is my break!**"  
"Well, well!" Meg gave a smirk. "Hello! Nice to have finally gotten you."  
"**I know full well what you were doing.**" George's voice got angrier. "**I knew it was you because my secretary is having a nervous breakdown now! Do you have any sincerity at _all_**?!"  
"Don't you mean she's your 'afternoon snack', honey?"  
"**_That_ is none of your business**" was the growled retort. "**Now, maybe you can tell me why the hell you're calling.**"  
  
The smile came on Meg's face. She gave a nod.  
  
"I've found something interesting out here at Edwards." Meg took a deep breath. "I've learned that Yeager may not have been the first to fly past the speed of sound."  
"**Excuse me?**"  
"I interviewed Yeager. He made a mistake. I believe that there is a man…" Meg took a deep breath. "A man by the name of Scott Garnet, who broke the sound barrier before Yeager did. I overheard it from a group of veterans, and Yeager practically bawled at the suggestion, George. That's how I knew. That's what I am going to write my story about."  
"**…._Excuse me_!?**"  
  
Meg's eyes widened at this. To be sure, she figured George would not be to approving of the idea. He always hated her ideas. Yet something in his angry tone made her almost a little surprised.  
  
"**What the hell have you been smoking, Meg?!?!?**" The barrage came down. "**You were _supposed_ to get an interview with the old man, not stalk him!**"   
"What?!" Meg couldn't believe her ears. "I didn't 'stalk' him! I asked him a question!"  
"**I told you. I told you before you left. _Don't_ be asinine with him, dammit! And who the _fuck_ is Scott Garnet?!**"  
"Hey!" This time, Meg's voice began to rise. "I was not being pushy towards him! I asked him a simple question in a very calm matter, and he got choked up. Its not _my_ fault the old man started to cry."  
"**Oh,**" George's voice dripped with sarcasm. "**And I guess I'm supposed to believe that you were the @#%$ Mother Teresa with him. I put you on a simple, simple story-**"  
"GODAMMIT!" Meg was now screaming into the receiver. "Shut up and LISTEN to me! I have learned something that may just change everything about this guy! That's a hell of a lot better than the goddamn interview they stuck me with!"  
"**Well,**" George's voice became calmer. "**If that's your bend, just go on ahead, Meg. Besides, I think I speak for everyone when I say it'll be fun when you're gone.**"  
"Oh, so now you're threatening to fire me?!" Meg's voice became even louder. "I'd honestly like to see you try with that little clause in our divorce, you little jack-off...unless you want to be publicly associated with an 'ass' with the Westbury Junior High female students!!"  
"**Are you crazy?!? You're nothing more than a fucking laughingstock! What, do you think we care about this Scott Garnet? Do you think _anyone_ cares?!**" George was obviously yelling now as well. "**Where'd you get your information from, again? Oh! Yeah! A bunch of old men who probably couldn't tell the difference between a toaster and a douche!**"  
"**_FUCK YOU!!!!!!!_**"  
  
Meg threw the phone back down on the hook with a definitive slam. She took several deep breaths, her head turning in every way with rage as the adrenaline pumped through her. Then, with another screech, she balled her hand up into a fist.  
  
"SON....OF.....A BITCH!!!"  
  
Her fist didn't completely penetrate through the glass of the booth. It did, however, leave several good sized slivers of glass in Meg's knuckles, to which Meg gave an angry growl of pain.  
  
_That weasel...that shit!_ Meg exited the booth, nursing her hand. _Like he knows anything. He knows nothing! Nothing at all! He wouldn't know a good story if it was a whore._  
  
Moaning, she stumbled around for a few moments, trying to consolidate herself with the pain and the blood of her self-inflicted injury. She cursed herself, she cursed George, she cursed everything her mind could fix its thoughts upon.   
  
_Why the hell?_ Above her, several planes - all of them from the era in which Scott Garnet had come from - flew, their ancient metal glistening with new paint as they flew. In the front were five Cessnas, all painted in the colors of the American flag. _What the hell is wrong with me? Why was I so.....offended?_  
  
That last word shocked her. Of course she knew why she had been offended. She had been denied, and she hated being denied. She especially hated being laughed at, being teased, and when that happened, the insults would come from her mouth. It always happened like that, and before, it was no matter to Meg because she never cared about how others perceived her attitude.  
  
Yet now, at the same time, she cursed her ex-husband, she was actually _upset_ at herself for being so offended this time. She had let her guard down. She'd never do that under normal pressure. What was stranger, it was over a story that was actually _true_. At least she was positive it was true.  
  
_What is WRONG with me?_  
  
The jacket was the first thing that came to her mind as the key to her problem. Ever since she laid eyes upon it, she had sensed something was wrong with her. The fact that she had bought such a moth-eaten old item was something that appalled her, and it was not something she relished. Neither was her eagerness to seek the forgiveness of Japs or any other dark-skinned person; yet, that very morning, she had to _apologize_ for her behavior to two of them. It boggled her mind as she took out her cigarettes and her lighter to take a drag.   
  
But what confused her the most about her behavior since buying the jacket was that she had not once thought of taking it off - at least, not on her own account. She was practically in the middle of the scorching desert, in the middle of the day, and she was wearing a bulky pilot's jacket lined with sheepskin fur. Even more strange was why; she felt safe with it on. It was almost like a talisman of protection…  
  
_No….._ Even now, a disbelieving chuckle came from her lips. _No, its just a @#%$ jacket. What the hell is it going to protect you fro-_  
  


****

*Ka-BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!*

  
  
The new sound caused Meg to lose the cigarette from her mouth. She should have been prepared for another sonic boom after the first jolt, and indeed, she almost brushed it off as such. Upon turning around, however, she realized she was wrong.  
  
_Dead_ wrong.  


****

*THOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM*

  
  
She hadn't seen what had happened before. She did not know that one of the Cessnas, during its tune up for the show, had accidentally been given a hairline crack in its engine tank by a screwdriver. No one noticed; not one had bothered to check. As a result, this crack became enlarged as the Cessna began to fly overhead. The pilot, in turn, attributed the odd, unusually powerful turbulence to simple fact of wind shear. The wind, after all, had been stronger than usual that day, and similar assumptions were shared by the other pilots in the show. Even Chuck Yeager had noted that the winds in both the sky and near the ground had picked up since his arrival, yet chalked it up to the weather.  
  
There was, however, no more mistaking the problem as being the result of wind resistance. As the pilots had turned the planes around, the gas from within the engine of the doomed Cessna leaked onto the electric wires underneath the belly of the plane. The heat from the exhaust of the plane had already caused enough melting on the rubber wrappings to expose an inch-long shred of unprotected wire; normally, this was still not a problem in planes restored by the military for recreational use, because the wires were still protected with a thin sheath of a state-of-the-art gas-and-heat repelling cloth. It was designed to withstand being eaten away by gasoline and temperatures of up to 3,000 degrees centigrade.  
  
However, even this did not help. The cloths on the wires in question had not been updated for several months, perhaps even several years, and as a result, the cloth had practically disintegrated from wear and tear. Without either the rubber coating of the sheath of cloth to stop it, the exposed wire sparked upon contact with the gas and immediately caught on fire. It was only a matter of moments, then, before the Cessna exploded, taking with it the pilot and two other Cessnas as it hurtled to the earth below.  
  
What the second explosion was, was, in fact, the sound of the planes crashing into the ground. By the time Meg even understood what had happened, she realized it was far too late. One of the planes was sliding right towards her.  
  
**_RUN!!!!!_** The last bit of Meg's reason, of her sanity, of everything she had stood on in terms of her stoic callousness, came back for one instant with a roaring vengeance. **_RUN, YOU STUPID FUCK!!!! GET OUT OF THE WAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_**  
  
This was overtaken quickly by fear. It was not anything that she had ever felt before in her life; it was not the 'fear' she had felt in any interview, or any trial, or even around foreign people. What she felt was pure, unfiltered, unadulterated, primal fear. It was the fear of sudden death, the fear of something she had never faced before, had never expected.   
  
And as the fiery inferno headed straight for her, as she heard the screams of the crowd at the sight of the crash, as she found herself staring closer and closer into the cockpit until she could see the whites of the eyes of the pilot as he screamed in pain, as she herself began to feel the heat sear into her skin and into her hair, she could only think of one thing, one final epitaph to her life.  
  
_Damn you, Scott Garnet._  
  
The flames came upon her as her thoughts came upon this final, angry revelation that it was the dead man's fault. The heat was fierce as it licked her face. She screamed, but the shrieks of her pain simply echoed into the fire.  
  
_Damn you......damn you......_  
  
Finally, just as she bent down to take the full brunt of the plane as it hurtled towards her, she felt something grab her hand. It was strong, strong and firm, and Meg found the scenery around her shifting violently. The flames disappeared, replaced by shifting forms of bright, infinite streaks that seemed to the colors of the sky. The heat, also, was replaced by a fierce wind, one which blew Meg's hair into her face. She was flying, floating, and the flames seemed rapidly shrink until they disappeared completely. The hand which held her held her fast, and it wasn't going to bring her back.  
  
_Damn.....you...._  
  
She was slipping. She knew it was the end. She felt all of the burns all over her body, and she knew that - the last thing one could have expected her to think - she was, perhaps, ascending to heaven. She had never been a believer of religion in all of her life. Then again, as far as she was concerned, she was no longer living.   
  
With that in mind, she turned to look at the hand which was bringing her.   
  
_.......An angel...._  
  
The sharp-looking wings on its back did not move; in fact, the shadowed, blurry figure, whose hand held her fast to its body, almost seemed to be running. But Meg knew they were nonetheless moving faster with each passing second, and it made her dizzy.   
  
_.............Slow down..........._  
  
It was no use; she was blacking out, and she knew it. Her guide wasn't going to slow down; if anything, it was going even faster than before.  
  
Soon, the colors of the sky darkened, slowly, slowly, until there was nothing but darkness. Her last thought before the blackness finally overtook her was why, of all people, this being would be so interested in saving _her_.  
  



	14. XII

**__**

XII

  
  
  
  
France, 1943.   
  
It was almost hell on earth for the young man.   
  
"Cette façon!"   
  
A faint light, the only bright object in the night, was briefly shone onto his face as he struggled to run. He was still badly shaken from what had happened to him just hours before, and it didn't help that he could not completely understand the man's orders. He could only hope the shadowy figures he was following were, in fact, allies.   
  
"Pouvons-nous fier cet homme?" The nervousness of one of them was laid into his voice. "Que s'il est-il un Allemand faire semblant d'être Américain?"   
"Le vieil homme qui a trouvé lui dit autrement. i" The man who had been shouting to him was talking in a low voice. "Il a vu que l'avion explose, il dit. Il est un informateur fiable. S'il s'avère être un espion. ....let's garde au moins en haut des apparences pour le moment. Nous saurons bientôt assez pour faire une décision._"   
  
He would have to trust that they were friends. As it was, he was in the middle of enemy territory, a shot-down pilot who was far away from his base amd out of his league on the ground. He took in great gasps of air to keep himself awake...   
  
***BAM!!!***   
  
The shots were distant, but it was more than enough to warrant a reaction from everyone. The dispaced man was immediately down, and he felt for his gun if he was needed to fire back. The other two went behind a bush.   
  
'_Non!_' The hiss was followed by a grab at his gun from one of the men. '_Garder en bas! Ne pas déplacer ou dire un mot!_'   
  
The American felt the sweat drip off of his neck as the shouts of German Nazis started to come closer to the place they were hiding. There were screams - mostly female screams - as the gunfire continued.   
  
***BAM! BAM BAM BAM!!!***   
  
'_Bâtards......._' The man could almost hear the French roll off like venom. '_Je veux les tuer quand j'entends les cris des femmes, des enfants. ........condamne Dieu des bâtards Nazis...... _'   
  
The American shut his eyes as the screams continued. He could only close the sounds off from his helpless mind, but they kept getting louder....the bullets, the sound of firing guns, kept getting closer...   
  
***BAM! BAM!**_ BAM!*   
  
The sudden jolts and noises gave Yeager a terrible start. He burst up our of the bed, only to give a loud cry of pain. His hand immediately went to his chest.   
  
'What in....' Yeager felt movements and murmurs next to him. 'Sweet.....Jesus, its only four in the morning....'   
  
Yeager would have taken a deep breath at the sound of Glennis' voice. It had all been a dream. On the other hand, his injuries would not allow him the luxury to breath in relief.   
  
'I'll....' He slowly got up. '....I'll send them off.'   
  
He was bent over as he walked out of the bedroom. His back twitched from the walking, even though he had taken extra care to wrap the bandage tight enough to compress the pain in his chest. Unfortunately, broken ribs were not so easy to take care of.   
  
Chuck and Glennis knew that he had broken his ribs even before they had called Boyd up to check on them. Yeager was someone who had gotten a broken leg before, and he knew how a broken bone felt. This time, however, he had broken two or three ribs when he was thrown into the tree, and it was a miracle that his back hadn't gotten screwed up at all in the process. As it was, it was difficult for Yeager to take deep breaths without his lungs touching the fractured areas, and that in itself was a sign that something was wrong.   
  
It was this, then, that Boyd had been worried of, and this is what caused Chuck's sudden absence. Boyd had exracted from him a promise to go see a doctor, though Chuck had not yet done it.   
  
***BAM! BAM!***   
  
Chuck gave the best irritated sigh that his condition allowed. He took off the chain lock, unlocked the doorknob and threw open the door.   
  
'......Jack?'   
  
It was the last person he had expected to see. Jack Russel stood there in front of Chuck, his head down and shoulders slumped. When he heard Chuck's startled voice, he looked up at Chuck. His face was completely solemn; his eyes seemed darker than normal, as if the light in them had somehow flickered out.   
  
'......Jack.' Chuck repeated himself uneasily. 'What are you doing here?'   
  
There was a moment of silence at this. During that moment, Chuck's uneasiness slowly turned into fear. Boyd had assured him that no one on the team was to know that he was out on an ordered sick leave, that they would think him to have been called on a last-minute military business of sorts which caused him to end up out of Muroe. Why the colonel had decided on such things, Chuck was not sure, but he had obeyed the colonel's orders and had kept himself in the house; it had seemed urgent enough for him to keep low.   
It was only two days after he left. Now, looking out his front door, Yeager knew something was wrong - very wrong - if Russel had come to his house at such an ungodly time.   
  
'Chuck.' Russel finally said. His voice was low, and it began to tremble. 'We....something's come up. The colonel wants you.'   
  
---------------------------   
  
'This is our ass.'   
'This is not the end.'   
  
Boyd wiped his forehead and took a deep breath. He began to pace his office once more; since he left the tower following what had happened, he had paced frequently during each passing conversation he had with the crew. This time, it was Anderson he was talking to as the sun began to slowly rise in the inky sky.   
  
'We still have Glennis, and she'll be here in twenty minutes.'   
'But what about....' Anderson puased. 'What about this morning? All of us saw what happened. What about the generals, and our other superiors? They don't _tolerate_ peacetime casualties!'   
'Captain,' Boyd turned to face him. 'How would you know this to be true?'   
'It wouldn't be right _not_ to, sir.' Anderson stared back at Boyd. 'You and I both know that.'   
'You and I both know that, and I know others may agree to it.' Boyd turned towards the window. 'However, there are some instances where only the end counts. If Yeager can.....fly the plane.....'   
  
Boyd's voice faltered a bit at this. Anderson did not need to know anymore; he understood what the colonel was getting at. He certainly did not like what he was implying.   
  
'Is that how they'll see it?'   
'That's how they'll have to see it.' Boyd's face did not turn to look at Anderson. 'History does not remember all of the Army men who died at Normandy, and that was only three years ago. This is because, in the end, the invasion did what it had to do. And we were victorious as a result.'   
'...So you want Chuck to succeed.' Anderson looked down. 'At the expense of Scott-'   
'Captain,' Boyd's voice became raised. 'The truth of the matter is, the situation has always been a hazardous one. Project Blue Gale was and is a high-risk project. Captain Garnet's death, as tragic as it is to all of us who saw it and to everyone who knew him, doesn't matter.....in the event this is successful. And with the investigation started, we will find out the _truth_ to the accident. Do you understand?'   
  
Boyd took a deep breath to calm himself down. He of all people knew full well what was at stake now, and that success and failure had costs to everyone. Success meant Scott's unwitting sacrifice was not at all in vain. Failure, of course, meant two dead bodies instead of one.   
  
On the other hand, Boyd knew also who was to blame for what happened. The captain's blood was all over his hands, and if he could find the right evidence to at least explain that the accident was sabotage, then it would prove to everyone that rocket technology wasn't that the main culprit behind the death of Scott Garnet.   
  
'Anderson.....' He finally spoke after another moment of silence. 'I want you to ready yourself for Yeager's arrival at the base. We will prep the plane as soon as he gets here, and we will fly again before noon. Understood?'   
'....Yes, sir.'   
'Good. Dismissed.'   
  
Slowly, Anderson stood up and saluted the colonel. Then, without another word, he walked out of the room.   
  
_.....I'll get you._ Boyd looked out of the window as the rest of the sun started to rise over the distant mountains. _You son of a bitch. I will make you regret messing with me and with my men..._   
  
----------------------   
  
Chuck's arrival at the base came at about nine o'clock that morning.   
  
'.....You sure you want to do this?'   
  
Yeager said nothing to Russel; he instead stared out the window as the military jeep slowly pulled onto the airfield. His eyes were dried out from all the emotion he had felt during the long drive; Russel intentionally made it so, inorder for Yeager to have the angry crying fit he needed to have. Russel himself had done it before coming to the Yeager house. A normal drive from Los Angeles and back took three to four hours; the time if took for Russel to go arouse Yeager and bring him back was roughly twice that. Naturally, it was a shock to everyone what had happened.   
  
'...Damn.' Yeager's voice was hoarse. 'I don't have much of a choice, whether or not I'm up for it.'   
'I think Hedgehog would have wanted you to go.' Russel put on the brake. 'But God help us if it's what we all think it was.'   
'...Sabotage.'   
'Boyd has Pendleton send MPs along with Glennis...or at least thats what I was told his intentions were.' Russel took a deep breath. 'If that's so, then they may be here any minute, or now, and they'll be going to scour the wreckage.'   
'How bad was it?' Yeager combed his hand through his hair shakily. 'I mean.....'   
'I don't know Chuck.' The driver opened his door. 'The debris looked like it went everywhere. But I don't really want to know, and you don't want to know either. Not yet. Agreed?'   
'...Yeah. Sure.'   
  
Slowly, painfully, Chuck got out of the car. It was difficult to do; his left side was the side impacted by the accident, and it was difficult to get out of the car even though the door was on his right side. With a slide on his bottom, he hopped out of the jeep, though this was a half-hearted action at best.   
  
_Damn....._ As he began to walk, Chuck noticed a distant trail of smoke around the mountain ranges in the north. He shook his head. _Damn, Hedgehog....._   
  
'Captain Yeager.' Boyd's voice interrupted his thoughts. 'They're waiting for you. Glamorous Glennis is over there on the airfield.'   
'Yes, sir.' Yeager saluted. 'I'll do my best, sir.'   
'.....Yes. Please do so.'   
  
Without another word, Boyd turned and left. Yeager gave another nod before turning towards the airfield. He walked, his shoulders slumped. He did not want to do what he was about to do, not under the circumstances he was being thrust in. On any other day, he would have been ecstatic to be going up in Glennis, smiling as he strapped himself in, giving a thumbs up to the crew before he was loaded onto the B-29. This was not a normal day by any means. All Yeager could wonder, as he walked painfully towards the waiting Glamorous Glennis, was whether he would share the same fate.   
  
'Chuck.' Ridley met him halfway. 'Its time. Glennis was outfitted with landing gear at Pendleton, so you won't have the bounce down with no wheels.'   
'Thanks, Ridley.'   
  
With a solemn nod, Ridley gave Chuck a good slap on his shoulder. It took everything Chuck had to not cry out in pain, as the pressure went right onto his ribs.   
  
'Get in there, and make some magic,' Ridley replied as Yeager stumbled towards the plane. 'We definitely need it right now.'   
  
The pilot gave a nod as he slowly began to climb into the plane. As he looked upon his controls, upon his station in the plane, he began to realize - if he had not done so already - that there was untold amounts of pressure on him. Practically all that they had done rested on him, and if he could not at least get past Mach 1.0 - hell, if he didn't _live_.....   
  
He was so distracted in his pondering that it was not until he was strapped in that he realized there was a very big problem. He could not reach the door to close himself into the cockpit. His left side was practically unmovable from the pain, and it was his left side which was required to shut the cockpit door. He tried to cross his right arm over to no avail. The minutes began to crawl by; any second, they would understand completely why he had been taken off as primary.   
  
'....Chuck?'   
  
The voice made him give a start. Nevertheless, Chuck managed to look over sheepishly at Ridley with a pained laugh in his throat. Ridley was staring at him, both confused and concerned.   
  
'You ok...?'   
'....Sorry....' Chuck shook his head with a small chuckle. 'I....I'm kind of havin' a problem with the door, I guess...'   
  
For a moment, Ridley kept staring at Chuck. Chuck knew his secret was out, at least to Ridley. Nor was the pilot sure how the engineer would react after he got his tongue back, or if there was any way to remedy the problem.   
  
'....A.....' Finally, Ridley shook his head in frustration. 'The tip of the iceburg. The _tip_.'   
'Sorry, Jack.' Chuck shifted his body again when his chest began to hurt. 'I know....you've had the world's...shittiest morning...'   
'This can be remedied.' Ridley looked around and pointed towards a young man walking towards one of the storage barracks. 'You! sir! Yes, right now, I need you right here. Go get me a broom, a saw, a hammer....'   
  
Chuck watched as Ridley finished his list of items. With a firm smack on his shoulders, the boy ran as quick as he could to the building in question. Two minutes later, he returned with another worker, who carried a saw and an old, splintered broom in his hands.   
  
'Here.'   
  
Ridley was suddenly on the side of the door, sawing the broom down to pieces and then hammering them to the side. Within ten minutes, a long, wooden handle, nailed to the door, was attached via duct tape to Yeager's right arm. With relative ease, Yeager moved his arm, and the door closed in response.   
  
_Damn good,_ he thought as he silently strapped himself in. _At least THAT's come out right...._   
  
As soon as he was in, he felt the plane move. He was being loaded into the B-29.   
  
_Calmness…._ he took a deep breath. Forget the pain and let's see how well I hold up in the air, Glennis...   
  
------------------------   
  
The flames still burned brightly in the mountains beyond the base. Though what could be seen from the base was minimal and nothing more than a trickle of smoke, closer in it was much more virulent. Much of the debris was still hot from the explosion, and at the core of the wreckage - where the cockpit, the engine, and the pilot would have been situated - there was a gas fire.   
  
'Holy......shit!' One of the men assigned to the cleanup quickly covered his face as the flames popped. 'Its hotter than the desert up here! Has to be!'   
'There's a fire, you dumbass!' Another one of them men gave a motion. 'We're going to have to put it out before we can do anything!'   
  
The group of men - a combination of military police and army officers - were gathering around the singed debris of what was once an XS-1. It was no longer what it had been; it was now a heap of flaming mess. The fires, though miraculously self-contained, had been burning non-stop for several hours. There was no hint of the former beauty of the plane; all of it had disintegrated, leaving only a hardened metal skeleton of parts that were soaked in gas.   
  
"One odd-looking plane they got," another commented as he approached the side of the plane. "You don't suppose someone down there shot it down to see what would happen, do you?"   
"Stupid shit. Not even the Army would shoot down a plane like this." A fourth guy rubbed his chin in thought. "Look at the design. Its nothing I ain't seen before. It must be a bad prototype."   
"Well, whatever the hell they used it for," The other man grumpily took up a hose, "they made it pretty urgent that we put it out and give it a once over and report anything that may have caused it to blow up like they said it did."   
"That's enough." One older man - obviously the leader of the group - finally came up to the men. "Get back to work and shut your mouths."   
"…Yes, sir."   
  
As the four men filed out, another, younger man walked up to the leader. He was sweating profusely from the heat, and as he spoke his mouth spat everywhere.   
  
"A damn waste, huh?"   
"Damn waste."   
"Our guys are collecting debris everywhere, sir."   
"How long a radius do you project, lieutenant?"   
"I'm estimating about ten-to twenty miles, give or take a few thousand feet." The younger man scratched his nose. "That thing must have been going real fast to leave a debris field that large, sir."   
"…..Well…..its none of our business to inquire that deeply into how fast the plane was going unless an inquiry is drawn up. Most likely, there will be one." The leader wiped his brow and then raised his voice. "Ok, men, let's get this fire out so we can make the clean-up a little more inconspicuous, right?"   
'But, sir! Its all gas!' From in front of the leader, another man holding a hose shook his head. 'We'd never get it out with our equipment!"   
"…Very well." The man paused. "This is getting better every minute. Looks like we're going to just have to let it burn out on its own. Don't touch it and don't spray water on it!'   
  
The group nodded; everyone knew it would be foolish to even attempt to master a gas-induced fire. They knew that it was possible that such a decision would destroy the body of the pilot trapped inside, but they also knew that no one could have possibly survived the explosion, let alone the crash. If he had survived the explosion, the sudden fall and the air pressure would surely have finished him off.   
  
"At least the flames are keeping to themselves in a small vicinity." The younger man picked up a metal beam. "It's a miracle nothing else has caught on fire."   
"Well, just you wait." The old man steadied himself on a tree. "Come in the afternoon, when the sun's up-"   
'AAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!'   
  
Everyone's head suddenly jerked up at the sound of this. From behind the wreckage came another member of the crew, running and screaming.   
  
'What in...' The leader of the group began to feel himself turn red. 'Sam! What in the hell are you-'   
  
His question was answered when he saw what was in the workers' hands. It was a small device, whatever it was, and it was on fire. With a scream, the worker threw it on the ground and stomped his foot on it. The fire on the object was completely smothered out within moments.   
  
"GAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!"   
'SAM?!?'   
  
The now pale faced-worked collapsed as the leader ran over to him. His hands were almost completely charred from the fire, and his face was shrivelled in pain.   
  
'What in the hell is wrong with you, Sam?!' The leader grabbed Sam's collar. 'I _said_, 'don't touch it'! You blind fool, do I have to spell it out for you!?'   
'S-sir!' Sam trembled as he spoke. 'I-I'm sorry, b-but I thought I saw something!'   
'Saw something?'   
'A body, s-sir.' Sam gave a gulp. 'It was there, I th-thought, in the cockpit......then it wasn't there....and th-then something.....dropped into my hands….'   
'....._Dropped?_'   
'L-like someone tossed it t-to me, sir...' Sam shakily pointed towards the object, which lay on the ground. "And it was on fire. S-sir, I couldn't stop it. I swear th-that that is the truth…."   
  
The leader turned to look towards the object. His anger melted away to surprise as his eyes inspected the object, identifying as something important.   
  
"Well….I'll be God dam-"   
  


****

*KA-BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO   
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM*

  
  
Every single head went up at the sound. It echoed in the mountains, over and over again, until it died down after twenty seconds.   
  
"Holy……._fuck_." The whole group was looking up towards the sky. "That was loud."   
"Like thunder…."   
"Or…._another_ explosion."   
"Sir, that's not funny."   
The younger man squirmed at the leader's words. In turn, the leader looked at the younger man, his expression serious.   
  
"Who said I was playing?"   
"Sir, I-"   
"I don't exactly enjoy thinking of it, but that sounded like an explosion. A very high-up explosion."   
  
The two looked back up towards the sky, watching, waiting, for the spec in the sky to fall to the earth. Clouds moved by, and the pre-noon sun was high in the sky for an October day. Birds chirped, and a soft wind began to blow. After the end of the moment, the only thing that had changed was that the wind was slightly stronger than before; that was all that had happened.   
  
"Well…..nothing's come down yet." All around them, the trees rustled restlessly. "Let's hope that's a good sign. Now, bag our new plaything and get back to work."   
  
---------------------- 

****

*KA-BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO   
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM*

  
  
The sound echoed, over and over, in Yeager's mind as he was suddenly smacked back into his seat by a sudden pop and thrust of the plane. It was wind, he knew; it was the force of the sonic wind trying to knock him around and throw the jet around. It was almost as if the popping sound had delayed the wind resistance, which then squeezed and shot the plane forward while it tried to pick things up onto its trail. This resulted in a sharp flux of pain from his ribs, but he forced his urge to cry back down. What was more important was the plane, and what had happened.   
  
_Shit…_ Yeager took a deep breath. _I hope I don't blow up……_   
  
His mind backtracked to the events before the violent jolt. He had been climbing steadily, and accelerating well, for a good twenty minutes. He thought he was going to do well.   
  
Then, things began to happen. He lost his radio. He lost sight and contact with Anderson. The plane began to jolt violently as he neared the 40,000 feet mark, as he neared Mach 1.0. His chest was practically throbbing in tremendous pain. Things couldn't have gotten much worse.   
  
Then he looked down at his speedometer, and he began to swear. On top of all of that which had happened, his speed gauge was now done for. He knew damn well that he was _not_ going fifty five miles a second. He wouldn't have even been up in the air if he was going that slow.   
  
On second thought, however, Yeager suddenly realized something odd with his situation. There had been the jolt, and the shudder, but then there was nothing. The ride - aside from the turbulence that was starting to gently shake Glamorous Glennis - had suddenly become abnormally smooth. Nothing on the board was working, but yet he was suddenly having no problem flying the plane.   
  
He knew he was flying fast. He was flying too fast for it to be this smooth. Something was up.   
  
"**…..ger…….**"   
  
Yeager's head snapped up. This caused more pain, but he didn't care. It was Anderson.   
  
"**…UCK….!**"   
  
_…..Damn._ Quickly, Yeager adjusted the radio. _I've got you, Bud. Hang on._   
  
"**MNIT…….**"   
"Anderson." Yeager took several breaths. "Bud, its me, Chuck. Do you hear me, over?"   
"**…….Yeag….**"   
"Bud." Yeager desperately began to tune in the radio. "Base. _Someone_. Come on, I'm right here! I'm having problems with my radio. Can anyone hear me?!"   
"**….lieve it….**"   
  
There came another crackle of static. Then, shouts from the end.   
  
"**…..huck….**" Slowly, Boyd's voice came in on the headset. "**Is that really you, over?**"   
"….Base…." Yeager confusedly began to reply. "This is Yeager….my….radio isn't working right. My speedometer has also broken…"   
"**Yeager, we thought you were a goner. Over.**"   
"…..Excuse….."   
  
Yeager stopped. He was confused; nothing had happened to him to make them think he was dead.   
  
_….The jolt…._   
  
It hit him. He gave out a gasp.   
  
"Base!" He quickly composed himself. "Base, may I assume a reason to think I have passed through the wall of air, over?"   
"**Yeager, this is base.**" This time, it was Ridley's excited voice. "**We have you clocked in at 1.04 Mach!**"   
"WHAT?!?!?"   
  
Now it was making sense to Yeager. The jolt was the wall of air. The sound was Yeager going right through it. He was going at a speed thought unattainable to man. And it didn't even feel like he was going that fast. He couldn't be going that fast; he couldn't believe it. Such a sensation should have been much more powerful to behold, though in its own way knowing that one was going so fast was a sensation in itself. For one moment, Yeager almost felt disappointed that he had not gotten the rush he was anticipating for all his time at Muroe; he blamed it on the immense pain he was in.   
  
Then he realized that he had just shouted right in Ridley's ear.   
  
"…Oh….I mean….." Yeager cleared his throat. "This is news to me; my speedometer's not reading my speed correctly. It says I'm at……."   
  
For the first time since his accident, he started to laugh as he read his coordinates. He was a damned idiot.   
  
"**Chuck….**" At this point, even Ridley was chuckling. "**I'd fix it if it was even _broke_.**"   
  
------------------------   
  
It was a whirlwind day after that. It was another half-hour before Yeager landed; before then, he would go even faster. His final speed: 1.06 Mach.   
  
"…._Shit_." Anderson was shaking his head. "Just…..shit."   
  
Everyone was seemingly in jovial spirits at Pancho Barnes as the sun slowly began to set beyond the reaches of the desert. Almost everyone on Project Blue Gale was in the bar, and everyone was having a drink on the house. There was much talking, and much laughing, as many grown men began to drink themselves to a tizzy so that they could belt out the words to "Heart and Soul" and the entire Sinatra catalogue with little shame or remembrance.   
  
"Wow…."   
  
Yeager gave a smile as he stirred a Virgin Mary. He was not drunk, unlike most of the men there, and for once he decided not to force his body to take it. He was injured, and he had an emergency appointment to see some Army doctors to keep in the morning. As numbing as alcohol was, he had the feeling that it was not a wise choice to imbibe any.   
  
"I can't believe I did it." Yeager released the straw from his hold. "Just like that, went through with a bang. There must be a name for whatever that pop was."   
"Yeah….this is….." Anderson nodded drunkenly. "…..Just…..shit."   
  
Yeager gave a nod as Anderson staggered to the front for another. He solemnly looked down towards his drink as he rubbed his temple. The sober concoction stared back at him. From his angle of sight, the solution almost looked like a glass of thickened blood with a celery stick thrown in it for flavor.   
  
_….Hedgehog._   
  
He pushed the drink away for a moment, and contemplated. He knew fully that these men were capable of much more folly and joy; he had seen it before on days that were deemed inconsequential. On those days, he'd be there as well. Capt. Scott Garnet, the corner boy, his shoulders slumped slightly as he took a sip of vodka or gin. He was a tame one, one who may have seen wilder days, or perhaps anticipated wilder days. Though he was well-respected by much of the crew, some of the guys nevertheless found the boy a bit too tame with his lack of reaction to the jokes and teases that were tossed back and forth.   
  
Not Yeager. Ever since he was carted to San Joaquin, he understood full well why the boy was quieter than the rest. Chuck couldn't blame him for it either; his father was a son of a bitch, and Scott was very protective of his family to begin with. Certainly, he was wild before, and very wild and energetic at that. Yet when he was wild, he'd made plenty of mistakes. Therefore, the energy he once spent trying to be free and wild and defiant, therefore, went to stopping himself from making mistakes, went to devoting himself to his family.   
  
Despite his great restraint, Chuck could see that there something in Scott, a sense of freedom that transcended drinking oneself silly and sleeping with twenty prostitutes. It was a strange sense of freedom, almost locked up within the boy in a way that made Chuck feel that Scott may not have been aware of it - or if he was, he could not explain it. Yeager would notice it when the urge to go over and talk to Scott came to him, and whenever Scott said something he'd give a small, sometimes sad smile in return, as if he were caged by something and no one could understand what was stopping him. Yet his eyes always seemed very bright, as if his eyes could see something in the distance that his body could not conceive.   
  
Chuck could almost feel the weight of Scott's death on everyone in the bar. All he had to do was look at Boyd, who had not had a drop of drink, whose expression was one which mixed anger and mourning, to know that it was on everyone's mind. All he had to do was see that there were those absent for the reason that they had to help the investigation up near the wreckage site of the other XS-1 to know.   
  
"Hey ho! Chuck!"   
  
Chuck turned to the side of the bar. Standing was a ground crew member, a private who was obviously very drunk.   
  
"To the Captain!" He raised his glass with a wobbly hand. "To the fastest man in the world. He beat the sonic wind like a mammy beats a nigger kid with a belt."   
  
There was laughter, drunken laughter, at the comment. One by one, glasses came up, and there were toasts all around.   
  
"To Chuck!"   
"Chucky! Chucky boy!"   
"Yeager, the best damn pilot on base!"   
"To Scott Garnet."   
  
The hullabaloo was instantly silenced. Boyd's face looked upon the false revelers as he raised his glass of water.   
  
"God help that man," he mumbled as he drank his glass.   
  
Slowly, the group began to talk again. The tone, however, was much more silent and subdued; everyone talked in whispers. Yeager watched as Boyd slowly finished his glass, set it down quietly onto the bar, and then proceeded to walk over to Yeager.   
  
"Captain." The colonel slowly bent down and spoke in a low voice. "Watch your back tonight…..I think you should come back to my office when you are finished."   
  
Boyd went to pat his shoulder, though he stopped in mid-air. Realizing why, Yeager gave a nod, and with that the officer briskly left the room. The officers watched as he   
  
_It ain't over….._ Yeager almost felt sick as he gave the thought his attention, and with it, a terrible possibility. _If he's thinking what I think he is….._   
  
He looked down at his glass. He knew that no one would try to do anything smart with the amount of men in the room, no matter how drunk they were. He took several sips of his drink, looked around, and then took several more sips, watching warily the entire time for suspicious activity from any of the men. Finally, he was finished with his drink, and as best as he could he excused himself from the room.   
  
-----------------------   
  
In all of his observations, Chuck knew there would be people missing. What his mind did not register was that there was one man who had always been at Barnes', every day, even when he wasn't supposed to be there. That night, he was not at Barnes'. He was waiting for Chuck outside.   
  
-----------------------   
  
Boyd's feet walked briskly through the base as night finally set in. It was well past eight, and several minutes after his scheduled appointment with the MPs who had scoured the wreckage. He knew they would be pissed at him for being late, but he would brush it aside. They were not there to adomish him on his tardiness.   
  
_….Hmmm?_   
  
Boyd's head went up. He looked around for a moment; he thought he had heard a rapid beating of footsteps in his direction. He slowly took out his gun and scanned the area behind him. There was nothing but the wind blowing through.   
  
_Dammit._ He quickly put his gun back into his holster and made his way into his office building. _Pull yourself. You have a meeting to attend._   
  
------------------------   
  
The path from Barnes' to the base was too dark for Chuck's comfort. It was a starless night, and there was no moon to shine through the thick clouds. Quietly, he paced himself so that he would not make too much noise for anyone to know he was there. Nevertheless, he had the feeling he was being followed, and he didn't like it.   
  
_Shouldn't call attention to myself…._ The wind began to blow a little harder. _Just stay calm. Be aware, and they won't take you by surprise. If there's anyone out there, they won't get you so good…._   
  
He did not hear any footsteps as he quietly walked.   
  
------------------------   
  
"I apologize for being late." Boyd slumped into his chair. "I was a bit caught up in some issues."   
"Its all right, Colonel."   
  
Boyd looked up towards Ridley, who stood to the side of his desk. His eyes were slightly sagged with sleep deprivation, just as Boyd's were. All of those from Project Blue Gale who were in the room turned to the older man who had scavenged the crashed XS-1.   
  
"You have anything that can help us, sir?"   
  
-----------------------   
  
Chuck could not silence the voice in his head. Nor could he quell the fear that was beginning to rise up into his throat. He _knew_ someone was following him. There had been a twig snap; he had turned and seen nothing, but he knew someone was following him. If he was any crazier, he'd think there were _people_ following.   
  
He may have done great things that day, but after what had happened to Scott, Yeager felt like everyone was after him now. Why, he was afraid to find out.   
  
------------------------   
  
"You sure as hell bet we do, sir." The older man held up a paper bag. "We know how the plane got sidelined."   
"You do?" Boyd was almost instantly awake. "How?"   
"Pure and plain sabotage. We found this….by chance, but we found it nonetheless." The older man opened the bag. "Someone got a good hole into the engine of the plane - you can tell it's a piece of the engine because of the type of metal casing it has - and the gas and nitrate leaked all over the electric bits of the plane and caught it all on fire. But the dumb shit forgot to take out what they used to leak it."   
  
With a casual flick of his hand, the older man emptied the contents of the bag out onto the desk. It was mostly a large piece of darkened metal, remnants of the Black Betsy engine. But there was no mistake as to what was plugged into the piece. No one could ever mistake a Bowie knife as being something else. In this case, it was slightly bent, slightly melted by the flames and the heat, and the blade was currently shaped like a half moon scythe. But it was still a Bowie knife. And the owner's initials were blazed into the handle, clear and precise as day.   
  
Boyd's eyes darkened. There was no mistake in his mind anymore.   
  
-------------------------   
  
Chuck took as deep a breath as he could. He couldn't panic. He had to hope that he could face whoever was following, whoever had it for him and everyone else on the project….because Chuck knew that was who was following him. His gut instinct, that which had helped him back in France, was practically screaming this fact to him.   
  
He did not know when he would strike. He did not know how he would strike.   
  
He did not know that someone else was trying to stop him from striking. This fact would not be unknown to him for long.   
  
'**WATCH OUT!!!**'   
  
The voice came out of nowhere. Chuck almost missed the warning, but his instinct heard, and obeyed. He swerved to dodge the punch.   
  
"…AAAAAARGH!!!!!!"   
  
His ribs screamed as he turned sideways, and almost instantly the attacker was on him, putting him in a chokehold.   
  
"JOHN!"   
  
Chuck broke loose at the sound of the unknown voice yelling the name; it had startled the attacker; he had not expected any shouting. It wasn't for long, however; John Redson swung again at Chuck with a powerful retaliative fist. With his left arm, his good arm, Chuck tried to push him away. Unfortunately, even though the fist missed, John was still too quick, and he got Chuck around the neck again.   
  
"You bastard." John chuckled as he gasped for breath. "I guess I should have paid more attention to that kid last night. I wouldn't have done such a sloppy job, eh?"   
"J….john?" Chuck fought the pain in his ribs to speak. "What….are you……You drunk?"   
"Clean as a whistle, Chuck." The angry, yet calm tone made Chuck freeze. "Clean as a whistle."   
'John...'   
'You were supposed to be there, Chuck.' The anger in John's voice made it shake for a moment. 'You were supposed to be up there this morning. You, do you understand?'   
'What....what are you....doing?!'   
'I spent so long to prepare.....then that fucking idiot kid shows up and ruins it.' One of the hands went off of Chuck. 'I have something for you.'   
  
Chuck froze when he heard the sound of a revolver being cocked. His heart stopped when he felt the steel of the barrel on his neck. He let out a gasp as the cold steel touched his jugular; it triggered more pain in his ribs, and the pain simply shot down to his toes.   
  
'John...'   
'You were supposed to be up there.' John's voice became calm. 'I had prepared for so long, to make sure that you wouldn't come back down alive. The passion I have told me so. You understand passion, correct?'   
'...It was you, wasn't it.....why?'   
'Of course it was....but you only know now?'   
'You helped to build the plane back at the factory. You knew better than almost all of us. You were the liason.' Chuck's chest pounded as he recited it all; he had not expected it. 'You ...you jammed the nails into the transmission….you started the fire…."   
"And you know why?"   
"You did something to the engine.....you….you killed Scott...'   
'For love. Love makes people do anything.' John laughed, a slight bit of insanity tinting his breath. 'She's beautiful. She's smart. That's Glamorous Glennis, right?'   
  
The sound of Glennis' name drained the color from Chuck's face, and he could almost feel the blood leaving as his face turned to ash. Presperation began to form as well as the adrenaline began to pump, but it was cold on his brow in comparison to the heat of John's stank breath as it drew in closer to his neck.   
  
'And you don't deserve her, Chuck. You just don't. You just don't love her like I do.'   
'....What....'   
'I make her things. I write her love letters. All these things for when we get together.' The barrel pressed harder. 'I have all of her photos in an album, from when I got them from your house. I can see us growing old together, having children, living happily. You treat her like an item to be shown off; you don't love her. Not once did I hear 'I love you' from you those nights you brought her to the bar, or to dinner. She deserves better than you.'   
'.....You........' The pain in his ribs was coming back as he hyperventilated. 'You don't.....touch a hair.....on Glennis' head......you crazy fuck….'   
'What are ya gonna do? You gonna stop me?' The hand shifted up to point the gun to Chuck's forehead. 'Just try. I'd like to see you. You're injured. That's what bumped you down from being primary. Not a family emergency, not some Air Force general up north. You can't crap me; I saw you when you were horseback riding with her. I was there. I followed you back when Boyd met with you."   
"That was….you too?"   
"Yeah. You bet. I just wanted to make sure you weren't doin' nothin'….naughty to her." Another chuckle. "Though I admit that whole scaring the horse bit was an accident. The branch I was perched on broke. Probably the only accident from me in this whole mess, too."   
"But even when you knew…I was injured….why did you….do it?" The pain was increasing still. "When Boyd…switched me with Hedgehog…."   
"Boyd…." John chuckled. "Boyd, smart guy. Almost figured me out from the get-go. If Hedgehog and Riley hadn't seen that leak before on Glamorous Glennis, this would all have been over and maybe no one else but you would have had to die. But no. Boyd, he had to get involved, huh? Thought he could stop me, eh? Maybe I just wanted to prove a point with him, too. That his airs and his know-it-all shit couldn't and wouldn't save his own men."   
"You got a problem with Boyd?"   
"I got a problem with people who have airs, Chuck." John's voice became darker. "That's the problem with a lot of these higher up guys - they think they know everything, don't they? I almost got kicked out of the army because those guys think they know everything, eh? My drinking gets in the way of my job, they say. Bullshit!"   
  
Yeager couldn't believe his ears. John was crazy. Not just crazy, but _crazy_. The reasons the flush was giving him, was spurting out, made no sense to Chuck, even with Glennis on the line. They were so foolish, almost stupid, for someone to act on.   
  
Yet Redson was crazy enough, disgruntled enough, to dare it. It gave him power, it gave him a reason to do horrible things. And everyone had trusted him because he seemed too busy drinking to be a threat. The last person any of them would have suspected.   
  
"Ah, well…." The crazy man gave another chuckle. "Not that that part matters anymore right now. Still doin' a favor by ridding the world of a pusswad like you, whether or not anyone really knows of my crap. Because you don't deserve her.' The barrel was digging into his temple now. 'She's mine. Always has been. Always will be. So get the hell out of here.'   
  
The finger was on the trigger; Chuck could almost feel the bullet in the chamber. He closed his eyes, waited for the end. For the nothingness. It was over for him.   
  
Then came the violent tremor.   
  
"UUUUGH!!!"   
  
Chuck was falling, and falling fast. His whole body staggered forward with release, and the pain began to subside. The wind of movement fluttered through his ears, slowly, in rhythm with the wind that blew through his hair. He wondered what would happen now, whether he'd feel any pain in his neck from his injury, as he could feel none. He almost started to wonder why nothing was getting brighter.   
  
Then, he opened his eyes. And heard the plopping sound of the gun falling to the ground.   
  
"ARRGH!!!"   
  
It took him a moment to regain his balance, to realize that though he was in great pain, the gun had actually not gone off. He stumbled forward to the ground, his arms flailing out in front of him to stop his chest from hitting the ground first. His knees helped in this transition, and he ended up on his limbs, gasping for air, his ribs spared from the impact of the tumble.   
  
"ARRRR!!!"   
  
He could hear Redson's angry roar of rejection, followed by a crunching sound and a grunt. Chuck carefully turned himself onto his back in wonder, his arms up in a defensive gesture. All he saw was the silhouette of Redson's head swerving left and right, his eyes filled with a incensed flame of insanity. It was very dark, but the blood still glistened around the assailant's mouth and nose.   
  
"Where the….." Redson's voice squeaked with rage. "Who the he-"   
  
***BOOOM!***   
  
The sound echoed in Chuck's ears as Redson was suddenly knocked into the air, screaming. It sounded like the noise that Chuck had heard as he passed through the wall of air; the odd pop, the strange exploding sound. Then, just like with what had happened in the air, the wind resistance caught up with the sound, and Yeager was nearly knocked off of the ground from the powerful sucking force. It took everything to keep himself grounded, and his persistence in staying down was almost immediately paid off.   
  
For, in front of him, though it was completely dark, he could see it. It was a figure, a _thing_, a fuzzy, small _thing_. It was going too fast for Yeager to even see a coherent form. But he knew something was there, that something was creating wind with its very movement and moving very fast. For each time the wind blew, the view in front of Yeager grew fuzzy, our of focus, and blurry. The next instant, Redson would be flying in another direction, his blood flying everywhere, a new part of his body being hit by this force which neither man on the spot could see. But both fully knew something was there. And from it came a fury that neither man had ever seen before.   
  
"UhuhuhUHuhuhuhuhuHYHIHhuhuhuh!!!"   
  
Yeager could not take his eyes off of what was happening to him. Redson was being hit so fast that Yeager was positive that no one would have been able to calculate how many times he had been punched, kicked, and smacked by the unseen force. Redson was taking at least five hits a second; it was to the point that Redson's head simply bobbed up in down so that it looked like there were five faces at once. There were a few gasps and angry grunts, but the force did not let up; there was so much anger that emanated from the force that it truly felt as if the attacker fully meant to tear Redson apart, piece by piece. For that matter, Redson had soon ceased even to cry out, and Chuck feared him to be dead. Blood was going everywhere; on the grass, on Redson, on the concrete road. Even Yeager was splattered a bit. 

****

*KA-POOOOOOW!!!!!!!!*

  
  
Then, at last, it was finished. Redson's body slumped to the ground, unable to stand up. For an instant, as the man fell, Yeager could see the pure fear and shock in his bloodied eyes, could smell the fresh blood as it gushed out of his mouth. Then, he was down.   
  
_……Oh my god…._   
  
Yeager was unable to move. He was too petrified at the sight he had beheld. He wasn't sure who - _what_ had made it possible, he wasn't sure where it had come from or where it had gone. But he knew there had some kind of a force, a presence, and it had been watching Redson, knowing of his intentions and of his acts. And with a strength and speed that Yeager could not fathom possessing himself, Redson was stopped. It was an act of rage, of primal anger, of punishment.   
  
Chuck had been saved. And he was as scared as hell of crossing whatever had saved him.   
  
"_You._"   
  
Next came a voice, one that swore he had heard before, yet sounded different enough to seem as if he had never heard it before. Then, he felt the wind once more on his back, and he could almost feel the presence - the _thing_ - right behind him. The hair on his back stood up and he trembled in fright.   
  
"_Get up._" The wind was suddenly blowing in front of him, and from the darkness, the silhouette of a hand came out of thin air. "_Its over._"   
  
Yeager balked; he was not sure if such a violent force could be trusted. After a minute, however, he decided to take the chance and gave the thing his hand. The force had saved him, and the hand, though slightly smaller than normal, looked human enough.   
  
"…..Thanks…."   
"_Its nothing._" The seemingly casual way that the force spoke to him was as surprising as the strong grip that brought Yeager back on his feet. "_But now, I must go._"   
"…Huh?"   
  
Yeager suddenly gave a start. The sky had suddenly brightened; the moon had broken through the clouds, and its rays seemed to almost shine down upon them with a soft, pulsing, almost heavenly light. He could now see his rescuer in a much better light.   
  
"….You….."   
  
His rescuer truly _was_ a thing, at least a thing which Chuck had never before seen in his life. It was short, no taller than three foot at the most. It had some human traits; its hands were human in appearance, it walked and stood upright. It even wore shoes on its feet. But it was not human. At least, it was not completely human from Yeager's estimation. It had small, spine-like appendages on its back, its chest and front was covered with hair, and its ears were tiny and almost pointed like a devil's. There was also a tail on its back.   
  
But perhaps the most striking feature of the creature was its dominant color. It was not dark, as Yeager had expected the creature to be. It was a bright, vibrant blue, many hues of a bright blue depending upon where the shadows hit him. But there was no black on him. However, Yeager noticed that its hands were an almost human hue of peach.   
  
Then he looked upon the face, and he felt all of the blood drain from his face and body.   
  
_……Hedgehog_.   
  
The sounds of sirens suddenly came into earshot as he realized who had saved him It was impossible. It wasn't real. It _couldn't_ be.   
  
"_Chuck._" The thing spoke again. "_….I'm sorry. I have to go._"   
  
Chuck tried to speak, tried to protest, or shout, or _something_. He had to know. He had to ask him how it was possible. But before he could, he did something that he regretted.   
  
He blinked.   
  
"FREEZE!"   
  
The light, the moon, the thing was gone. The next thing Yeager knew, people were everywhere, shouting, screaming. The headlights of cars glared onto the scene, onto Redson's shuddering body, and they converged onto him.   
  
"Get him up!" The sounds of guns being loaded and handcuffs followed Boyd's scream. "Son of a bitch, we've got him!"   
"Get up," the sound of another man's angry voice came into the captain's ears. "Degenerate asshole! Get him up and put him away."   
  
Three MPs dragged Redson up and hustled him towards the car. Yeager watched in shock as they loaded the saboteur into the back of one of the vehicles, slamming the door behind him.   
  
_Hedgehog…_   
  
"Chuck." He suddenly heard Ridley's voice. "Chuck, are you ok? What happened?"   
  
Chuck was compelled to say everything at that moment. He was still in such awe, such surprise, that he just wanted to explain it all. He wanted to tell how Redson ended up so beaten up. He wanted to explain the blood. He wanted to show it all. He wanted to tell the truth. It was all _him_.   
  
But the next moment brought him back to his senses. What he had seen, he understood, was for his eyes, and for his eyes only. To speak the truth to another would be imprudent; if he had wanted other to know the truth, he would have stayed to show himself to everyone else. Chuck would never understand how it was possible, and he wouldn't understand why it had happened. It was best not to explain what one didn't understand.   
  
"….I don't know…." Yeager took a breath. "He….he was like that. He came after me with a gun, and I just kind of….pushed him to the ground."   
"Gun?"   
"Its there, somewhere." Yeager searched for an explanation. "He dropped it."   
"…Right."   
  
Ridley took Yeager by the shoulders and led him to one of the cars. Yeager let himself be led; he had seen too much that night to trust himself to his own actions. Too much had happened, and too many questions had been raised. By morning, there would surely be more.   
  
_….Hedgehog…_   
  
He turned around one final time before he got into the car. And, for one moment, Yeager thought he heard Scott's voice echo through his ears as the wind picked up, tossing dust from the desert into the air towards the cloudy sky.   
  
_Live…._ The clouds again parted for a moment, and looking up Yeager saw a dark speck up near the halo of the moon. _I'll be back again to accompany…the sonic wind…..the sonic wind……….sonic wind…………….sonic………….……._   



	15. XIII

**XIII**

  
  
  
_October 14, 1987_   
  
_'......__Rye__............Mrs. Rye...........'   
  
The voice was distant, small and soft. It was almost like a whisper to those who could hear it, to those who listened through the swaying of the palm trees. If one put their ear down hard enough, one would swear that the wind really was saying something as it blew, as the dust again began to pick up around the barren landscape.   
  
'....Mrs. Rye...' The voice came again, distant and fuzzy. 'Time to wake up, Mrs. Rye....Come on now....'   
  
Meg's eyes slowly opened. He stood over her, his form completely fuzzy, as the wind blew into his face. He was whispering to her, his eyes literally glowing. Yet she did not know who he was.   
  
'Who are you?'   
'Come on, Meg.' The voice of the figure almost sounded amused. 'You know its me. You have to get up now! You have to hurry up! Its time for you to wake up.....'   
'Wake up....?'_   
'Mrs. Rye?'   
  
Meg's eyes jolted open, and she nearly gave a start. Here eyes were met by blaring whiteness, and she had to squint to help herself refocus.   
  
'Ah, there you are.' His face slowly materialized in front of her. 'Its good to see you're awake.'   
  
Meg looked around as her eyes focused. The voice that was speaking to her, it was not that of the whispers she had heard just seconds before; they were too deep. As soon as he eyes managed to clarify the IV bag next to her, the bandages on her arms and legs, and the oxygen mask over her face, however, Meg began to understand where she was.   
  
'Am I...'   
'Just a little burnt.' The doctor who stood over her took off his gloves. 'A few second degree burns on your body. A nice-sized bump, but I'll check your eye dilation right now if you're up to it.'   
'Where the hell am I?'   
'You're at Edwards Army Hospital,' the doctor chuckled. 'And, if I may say so, you are very much in demand at the moment. The papers are crawling outside the door, wishing to find out how you got yourself out of direct harm's way. But we've managed to hold them off so far.'   
'I...' Meg looked at the doctor. 'What do you mean, 'got myself out of harm's way'? I was right in front of that one plane when it crashed.'   
'Excuse me?'   
'When the one plane crashed in front of me.' Meg gave a huff; it was obvious to her that the man had gotten the story wrong. 'Who told you I jumped out of the way?'   
'...The MPs, Mrs. Rye.' The doctor looked amused. 'The MPs found you about twenty yards away from the plane. Surely you remember running out of the way?'   
'No, that's not how it...'   
  
Meg stopped. She was not a fool. She knew something was very wrong with the story, at least the story the doctor was relaying to her. She simply shook her head.   
  
"No….those guys got it wrong." She let annoyance slip into her voice. "I was right in front of that damn plane. I'm not having a memory lapse. I know where I was. I didn't run, I didn't do anything."   
"Then how is it the MPs found you away from the wreckage?"   
  
_Is this some type of damn challenge?!_ Meg felt herself becoming very indignant. _Do the MPs know how to measure distance right?! Who the hell is making this story up?!_   
  
"I don't know how that's possible!" she finally snapped. "All I know is, I was right in front of the goddamn plane! It was damn hot, and I couldn't move! And I passed out, and just about died back there. I even had a goddamn hallucination about……."   
  
She stopped again.   
  
_Hallucination. My hallucination….Someone…..grabbed me. And then I flew…. _  
  
She looked down on her hand, then closed her eyes, her mind backtracking through the events. Meg had called George up; that much she was sure of. Then she got pissed at George, and hung up. Then came the fire, and the plane, and she was petrified (though she wouldn't admit this out loud). Then came the hand, but that was after she had started cursing out…..   
  
_…..No._   
  
She remembered. There had been a wind, a powerful wind. Then there was the hand on her wrist. Then the sensation of movement. _Then_ she had blacked out.   
  
_It……can't be right._ Her mind exploded with millions of possible explanations. _It can't be right…. Should have died…….but who….._   
  
Yet no matter how many explanations she mustered - from accepting the doctor's story to the plane simply skidding over her to the plane suddenly swerving at the last minute and missing her completely - one kept coming into the forefront of her mind, even when she tried to push it away. It was impossible. It was unthinkable. It was _unbelievable._   
  
It was _him._   
  
"Mrs. Rye?"   
  
Startled from her revelation, Meg looked back at the doctor, her eyes widening.   
  
"Huh?"   
"Is….something wrong, Mrs. Rye?"   
"….I….."   
  
Slowly, surely, Meg began to understand. She shook her head.   
  
"…No." She looked away at the doctor towards the windows of the room. "I'm fine. I guess…..I don't recall everything that happened."   
"Ah!" The doctor smiled, then gently pat Meg on the back. "It happens. Memory loss triggered by an adrenaline rush. Hell, if I had several tons of fiery steel coming right at me, I know I would probably panic and run just like you did, and then I'd block it out of my mind."   
"Yeah….." Meg didn't look back at him. "I guess so."   
"…Well!" At this, the doctor stood up. "In that case, I'll be getting on now. You'll probably be able to get out in the morning, but I would suggest that you leave by the back door when you do."   
"Eh?" Meg half-turned towards the doctor. "What do you mean?"   
"Why," The doctor chuckled. "What else did you think would happen if you miraculously managed to save yourself from that kind of accident? Out of the four people involved, you were the only one to escape serious injury. The pilot in the plane coming towards you died, and the other two are in critical condition."   
  
  
Meg's mouth dropped open at this. On top of her shitty day, it was about to get shittier. Not only did she have no real story, she was now the object of interest for hundreds of nosy, foolish, novice reporters. They were no doubt outside, as Meg knew full well the workings of the reporter's mind. They would inquire of her, and they would certainly inquire about the man who had died right in front of her.   
  
"Well!" Meg heard the doctor open the door. "I must be going. I have some check-ups to do. If you need anything, the nurses' station is down there; just press the green button on the side of your bed."   
  
With that, the doctor closed the door, leaving Meg alone. And alone, Meg truly began to think.   
  
At first, it was the death of that pilot - that unknown pilot whose plane had been the catalyst of what had happened - that briefly put the explanation of her being spared death back into the depths of her mind. It was a sobering fact for Meg that the man had died. Perhaps, however, it was more surprising that she was actually acknowledging and _thinking_ of the pilot. It was, after all, the first time in many years that Meg had felt pity for someone who had died. She never really mourned anyone much since she moved out of Rome; she had never seen the reason to, specifically not in her profession. A reporter could not be objective if they let their sappier emotions get in the way of their work; they had to be tough, pushy, everything that others hated in order to get the story.   
  
This time, however, she felt different. Now, perhaps, it was because she was not the one getting the story, but rather she _was_ the story, was a part of the story. She was upset, and she hung her head down. She, at that moment, did not see the pilot as a story to get the details on; she did not see him as an idiot who deserved his fate for screwing himself over. For the first time in many years, she did not just se the story, she saw the _man_, the pilot who had been flying the Cessna, a man whose family not only lost a loved one, but would perhaps be bombarded by questions about the man's life or be pestered by reporters during his funeral service as to what kind of flowers they were using on his coffin. Perhaps he had a wife, and kids, who would have to watch as their lives were put up for everyone who wished to see. And of course there would be the investigations, and the tell-alls about the pilot from his best friends, and the rumors that he may have been drunk or worse, and all of the things that came with the sudden celebrity of being a tragic story.   
  
And for the first time, Meg hated herself for having ever promoted such a medium. For knowing she was a part of the destruction that had destroyed lives, for being one of the important ones who got the info, yet in the process was despised by the veterans in line and loathed by those who she stepped on. She had never before cared of what others thought of her. Now that she knew how she was truly viewed, all she wanted to do was throw herself back in front of that plane and laugh as the flames burned her into ashes.   
  
And as the explanation of her being saved started to creep back into her mind, her thoughts began to unleash her anger once more on her savior.   
  
_You fucking son of a bitch._ She had to bite her lip so that she wouldn't cry. _You saved me? You saved me. The enemy. You saved the one that was there to hurt people. What the hell possessed you? Why didn't you save that other guy? _She rubbed her eyes. _He had to have had a family, you cocksucking asshole. You had a family, didn't you?! You know what I did to people like him!_ Why me_?!?   
  
………….i tried…………_   
  
The voice silently blew into her ears like a soft breeze. Meg almost didn't notice it, but when she realized what it was, her head came up.   
  
_…..i was too late………forgive me meg……_   
  
"Scott Garnet."   
  
***BAM!***   
  
Suddenly, there was a gust of wind inside of the room, and the windows slammed open with a definitive bang. Meg gave a screech of surprise, and she nearly jumped from her bed.   
  
"Mrs. Rye!"   
  
The windows were suddenly shut. There were three nurses at her side, their faces lined with worry.   
  
"Mrs. Rye." One of them, the youngest, looked down at her. "Are you all right?"   
"Y…yes." The word barely escaped Meg's lips. "I'm fine….."   
"How did this window get open….?" One of the other nurses shook her head. "Rosie. Dammit, I told her not to forget to latch them. The wind can get in easily that way, you know, and it can swing these things open!"   
  
Meg was in the middle of nodding, of pretending to agree, when her eyes caught onto something on the other side of the room. It was a small table, a small night table, and on it were Meg's belongings. Her shirt, her pants, her purse, even her tape recorder, though slightly burnt, were all there, piled neatly on top of it. Meg managed to identify what everything was.   
  
Everything except for the one thing that had really protected her.   
  
"...Nurse!" The nurse felt a tug on her sleeve. "I'm sorry, but…..where's my jacket?"   
"Hmm?"   
"Over there." Meg pointed. "I had a jacket. It was a leather jacket, and it had…a blue insignia on it."   
  
The nurse looked over to her cohorts, then back at the pile, then back at Meg. Her face was confused.   
  
"Your…._.jacket?_"   
"Yes." Meg looked at the three. "You…..you got it out, didn't you?"   
  
A moment passed between the four in the room. As the silence wore on, Meg's thoughts began to ponder, then to think, then to realize. By the time someone spoke, she knew what was to be said.   
  
"…..Mrs. Rye…." The nurse looked again at the others. "You didn't have a jacket."   
"…….O….ok……"   
  
Meg stared into space, towards the table, where her jacket was supposed to be, yet wasn't. Soon, the nurses nodded to each other, and silently left the room.   
  
_……You have it, don't you….._ A small chuckle came into her throat. _You have it…._   
  
She began to laugh, and it rang inside the room. She covered her eyes as she laughed, shaking her head. She knew there was no need to bemoan her loss; the jacket was back with whom it belonged to. Besides, she had no need for it now; she had learned her lesson, and it would have been stupid to think that she could have kept such an important thing from a dead man.   
  
_I hope we meet again…._. She did not look over at the window; if she had, she would have seen a small, yet distinct trail of dust in the desert below. _You son of a bitch, I'll catch you somehow….._   
  



	16. The Jacket Lost

--o0o--   
  
  
_November 2, 1947_   
  
  
There was nothing left.   
  
"And then God said unto him," The voice once again filled the silent void of the stone-cluttered yard of decay. "'You shall know no pain, for I am the Rock which rejuvenates the worthy, and those who drink of my blessed Cup shall be immune to earthly ills. You shall know no loneliness, for I am the Shepherd who guides the righteous, and those who enter my House shall be given great company.'"   
  
It was a solemn, unbearably cold day to have chosen for such a daunting, unbearable task. The first snow of the year had already fallen onto Rome and the surrounding areas; there were no leaves on the trees, no birds in the air. And now, in St. Peter's Cemetery, there was now a funeral.   
  
It had first been held in the church of the same name; after two hours, it had been moved to this hallowed place, under a grove of trees, for the end of the service. Here, there was the local chaplain, a military man who was not Roman Catholic in denomination, the small, huddled congregation of people who had come to pay their respects, the eight Marines of the Honor Guard brought in from Washington, and the silence. Dead silence.   
  
"When Jesus gave his life for our sins, he told us that though we should die on earth, he too died so that we may be purified." The chaplain looked upon the quiet group, silently willing his sore throat to hold through the end of the service. "He willed through the believers that our bodies would one day find resurrection, and we will once again stand in his awesome presence to know life everlasting."   
  
In the middle if the group, and in front of the chaplain, was a coffin, one made of a strong oak that was indigenous to the Rome area. It was a good-sized box, six feet in length and four feet in width, and it gently glazed over with a chestnut finish. Draped over it was an American flag, a sign to those who may have passed by in wonder that the person being mourned had served in the military both during and after the war. No one stopped to wonder how he had died; to most people outside the circle, it didn't matter.   
  
"The man who we give our final blessings to, Captain Scott Johnson Garnet, was a United States Army Air Force pilot. He fought in Salerno, and saw many of his fellow pilots fall from the onslaught of evil which had attacked us all. He lived on, and he strode to never forget the lessons that war had taught him. For God knows that he was righteous, and that all he did in his life was just." The chaplain looked again at his crowd. "He was not a decorated soldier. At one point, he was even caught by the hand of Satan's servant that threatened the world. But he escaped, and the military rewards of a war halfway around the world mattered little to him when he returned to his loving family, and to the community he came to call his home. He was not a native Roman, but he touched our lives like only family did. He leaves behind his family whom loved him so much; his wife, Mary, and their young child, Sherralynne."   
  
The wife of the deceased stood by the coffin with the child in her arms as the chaplain spoke these words. She wore all black, which made her paled face, even under the veil cloth, stick out against the snow on the ground. She looked down as the chaplain continued his sermon, wondering if anyone had picked up on was would have been an obvious omission that had been made. It was an intentional exclusion of certain parties, whose mention would have no doubt caused hard feelings and revived unsightly memories for several of the people in attendance.   
  
Mary silently looked over to her right, over to two figured who stood at the other edge of the coffin. If the two Yeagers, Chuck and Glennis, had picked up on the missing name, they showed no sign of it.   
  
"And so, Lord, we ask that you take care of our beloved friend as he greets you sitting upon your Throne. Take him into Your heart in death as we had taken him into our hearts in life. Know that he was a straight and honest man, who never once broke the Commandments you gave to Moses and who never questioned the covenant Our Father made with Abraham. Your existence upon earth enabled a man like this to join you with your Angels to sing your praises and to watch down upon your chosen children." The chaplain closed his Bible. "May his soul rest in peace, and may his spirit be with you, forever and ever. Amen."   
"Amen."   
  
The crowd silently crossed themselves as seven members of the Holor Guard slowly stepped into line, several feet from the grave site. Those who held the flags up placed them into holsters before taking out their guns. Then, after a moment's hesitation, the eighth member took out a bugle and began to play "Taps".   
  
***BOOM! BOOOM! BOOOOM!!!***   
  
Mary winced at the first shots; she had never heard seven guns go off at once, let alone one gun, and it startled her. It also startled her young daughter, whose hand the new widow was holding, who promptly gave a squeak of fright. She buried her head into her mother's black petticoat, whimpering until, finally, the twenty-one gun salute was finished.   
  
"Honor Guard, fall in!"   
  
The group snapped into attention. One by one, the group walked over to the coffin and lifted the flag up. With quick movements the flag was folded into itself, into the required triangular shape. They fell into a two-by-two formation once more, with the second soldier on the right side carrying the flag in his arms.   
  
"Honor Guard, march!"   
  
Silently, the eight silently again marched away from the coffin, and the mourners were left alone. It took several minutes for everyone to realize that they were free to go; even so, few opted to go at that point, and many began to stroll around the coffin, examining it. They could admire the workmanship of the coffin maker; those who wished to look at the job that the caretaker did on the deceased were deprived. It was a closed coffin ceremony.   
  
It was no secret to many there that Scott's body was not in the coffin. The official reason seemed reasonable enough to many there; Scott Garnet had died on September 15, due to a hangar fire that left no remains. There were those, however, that were not so sure of such a story. Several low whispers came from several of the Roman friends of Scott at the sight of his Army friends, particularly of Colonel Boyd. The more inverted whispers hinted that Scott was killed in some other fashion, but something in how he died prevented the Army from giving the body proper burial. More sinister of an idea was that the Army had the body, but they refused to give it to the family because it would compromise national security.   
  
The most outrageous idea was that Scott was perhaps not even killed at all, but rather abducted by aliens. They had supposedly spotted some down in a small town down in New Mexico in a very peculiar incident, but it was a hushed up affair. Very few of the people gathered even knew what the name of the town was, let alone that there had even been an incident.   
  
_Damn you, Hedgehog....._ Mary watched as people began to look over to her after glancing at the coffin. _Why'd you have to go and do this? Why'd you leave?!_   
  
Mary's lips silently began to quiver. She did not want to let go yet. She couldn't accept it. She knew full well, too, that what they said was bull. She had gone to see him at the end of September, and had talked to him the night of October 13th. It was inconcievable that the Army would go out of its way to lie to her - _her_, who knew full well that Scott wasn't dead - and tell her that he had died a month beforehand. She didn't believe that he was dead; even though the group of friends from California mourned, she didn't believe he was truly gone.   
  
Even so, she mourned. She had to. Whatever had truly happened, whatever her head wanted to think, her heart somehow realized that Scott would not return to her or to Sherry in this lifetime. She couldn't bear it. True, their marriage wasn't perfect. True, Scott and she had their problems. But she had seen a change in him in those last months, and in that last visit. She knew somehow it was for the better, and she had been hopeful for their future together. With the war and Hiram's influence gone, she could almost feel that their true happiness was about to begin, that they could truly be a family and forget their divisions.   
  
It was a hope she almost could grasp, only to watch it slip just beyond the reach of her fingertips.   
  
'...Sis....'   
  
The voice made her stop. It was a deep male voice, deeper than Scott's. Mary knew who it was just by the influctions of his Long Island accent; it was one of the last voice she had expected to hear. She turned to face him.   
  
'Hey, Mary.' He had his hair slicked back, and he gave a smile to her in his black clothes. 'I was wondering when you'd notice me.'   
'.......Oh my god.....'   
  
She approached him, her heels sinking into the snow with several loud crunches. As she drew closer, it was easy for the man to tell how much sleep she had gotten since hearing the news of her husband's passing, as her eyes were sunken in, and there were black circles as well. Nevertheless, the sight of the man who was her brother seemed to cheer her up, if only in a superficial manner.   
  
'Jake.' She held his face up to hers. 'Is that really you?'   
'The one and only.' He was still smiling. 'I'm sorry....I missed the wake. I got caught up in the storm coming in.'   
'I see.....'   
  
Jake saw Mary's eyes searching behind him. He knew what she was looking for, and could only shake his head.   
  
'Ma and Pop, they wouldn't come.' He said softly. 'They refused. I'm sorry, sis.'   
'N-no....it's....' Mary slowly, sadly, smiled. 'Its good to see anyone come.'   
'I know.'   
  
With that, Jake gave Mary a tight hug, squeezing her close to him. As Mary's head rested on Jake's chest, he could feel her body start to heave.   
  
'Come on, sis.' He tilted her head up and wiped her tears. 'Let's get outta here. I don't want to see you crying for nothin', hear?'   
'Jake....'   
'Mommy!'   
  
Jake's head came up to see a little girl running towards him. She was in a black dress, with a little black petticoat, and her blonde hair was in pigtails. However, parts of the dress were caked in dirt, and her hair was full of leaves. A big smile came across Jake's face as he knelt down to greet her.   
  
"Sherry!' Jake gave the little girl a big hug. 'Oh, you grew bigger in a month, you know that?'   
'I know,' Sherry beamed. 'I'm now big enough to climb that tree!'   
'Tree?'   
'That one over there,' Sherry pointed to the large tree near Scott's coffin. 'It was big, but I got up there.'   
'Sherralyne!' Mary looked shocked. 'What were you _doing_ climbing that tree?'   
  
Sherry looked at Mary, then a Jake, with a confused look on her face. The wind began to softly blow around them.   
  
'Daddy let me.' Sherry tilted her head.   
'.....What?'   
'Daddy let me go up there.'   
'Sh....sherry.....' Jake looked at Mary before looking down at Sherry. 'You know....we should probably tell you....about your father, if you don't understand...'   
'I understand!' Sherry looked indignant. 'Daddy was sad just like everyone else was sad, because he didn't get to lay in the coffin. He said it looked comfortable.'   
'Sherry...?'   
'He's right up there, mommy,' Sherry pointed. 'But he's an angel now, so you can't see him if you don't believe. Thats what he told me. See, look! He's waving!'   
  
Mary looked up towards the tree branch Sherry pointed to. There was nothing there save the falling leaves.   
  
'Sherry, I don't see anything....'   
  
_....................mary........_   
  
Mary stopped. The wind blew gently into her ear, and almost sounded like a voice. Like Scott. Her mouth dropped open.   
  
'Mary?'   
  
_mary...._   
  
Mary didn't hear Jake; this time, the voice was stronger, and she was more than certain this time it wasn't just the wind playing tricks like in a dream.   
  
_Scott....?_   
  
Mary was still not completely sure; she still couldn't believe her ears. Then she blinked.   
  
'_Mary!_'   
  
Suddenly, there was a strong gust of wind, and he was there. He sat perched on the tree branch, his legs calmly swinging from one side to the other. There was a calm look in his eyes; in his face, a tranquil, yet mischievious expression on his face.   
  
Yet with everything Mary could see that was her husband, she realized that he was not just that. Not anymore. For he was not human anymore.   
  
'Oh my god....'   
  
Mary's eyes widened. She took a step back, trying to understand, trying to let it sink in. It seemed impossible that what she was seeing was the form her husband had taken.   
  
'Mary?!' Jake, who obviously could not see Scott, was looking at her with growing concern. 'Mary, what are you looking at?'   
  
There was another moment; their eyes met, and Mary almost lost herself in the hypnotic, pure calm of his eyes. Then, suddenly, he was up on his feet.   
  
'_Time's wasting!_'   
  
Mary gave a gasp as she watched Scott jump onto the coffin, bouncing off of it with an acrobatic ease unmatchable by any human. Then, with a grin on his face, he began to run out of the cemetary.   
  
'SCOTT!!!!!'   
  
Before Jake could stop her, before she could stop herself, Mary was suddenly after him. She had to stop him. She had to get him, to ask him. She had to know what happened.   
  
'Aow!'   
  
She tripped over her heels as she started out; with a swear or two, she tossed the shoes aside and resumed after him. Her feet, protected only by her nylon pantyhose, met with the cold, snowy ground, and she nearly yelped in surprise.   
  
'MARY!!!!!' She heard Jake's surprised shouts behind her. 'MARY!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!? COME BACK!!!!!!'   
  
There was a slowdown from Scott as he got onto Dominick St.; it was just long enough for Mary to be picked up by the draft, and she began to go faster as a result. As soon as she picked up speed, however, Scott suddenly sped up like a bat out of hell, and the next thing Mary knew she was on Black River Blvd., running past cars and street lamps.   
  
_Scott!_ Mary could feel her chest contract with all of the running, but she found herself unable to stop. _Wait! Come back!!! Please!!!_   
  
------------------------   
  
The nylon in the pantyhose was ripped up and plastered like glue onto Mary's bloodied feet as she ran into the house. She instantly collapsed onto the floor, her breakfast coming up to her throat. She was no runner, and she held her chest as she gasped for air.   
  
_Scott......_   
  
She was all alone, she knew; there was no one in the house. Scott had suddenly shifted out of sight as she came within two buildings of their house. Without the wind shear to help her, she was, therefore, left to hobble limply across the ice-covered sidewalk, screaming with each step.   
  
_My...feet..._ She was on her knees, and she pushed herself up onto a stair. _Ooh......Scott.....Hedgehog...._   
  
***CLICK***   
  
Mary's breath stopped. She was instantly up on her feet.   
  
'Scott?'   
  
***SLAM!***   
  
She forced herself to get up, and she began to ascend, her feet leaving faint blood prints as she did. As she went up the stairs as fast as she could, another sound of a door slamming froze her heart. It came from up inside her bedroom.   
  
_The closet._   
  
She had just reached the top, and had just managed to open her door, when she was greeted by a blast of wind. With a shout, she tumbled back into a wall, sliding down onto her back as she fell.   
  
***BAM!***   
  
Her eyes focused just in time to see the hazy figure, the creature whom had once been Scott Garnet, suddenly vanish into thin air, the windows flung open as his ways of escaping. Then, just as quickly, he was gone. Mary felt her heart sink.   
  
_.......Gone......._   
  
She buried her head in her hands and began to weep. Her fears were true; she would never see her husband again. It shook her deeply, knowing that Scott was there, but that she would not be able to find him. He had been going too fast for her; he was no longer even human. He had died, but had taken on a new form; exactly what it was, she could not completely ascertain.   
  
_…..Cold._ She struggled to get up. _Close the window._   
  
She hobbled into her bedroom - _their_ bedroom - and went about latching the windows up again. It was bitter cold outside for early November; it was at least below the thirty-degree mark. She silently scolded herself for taking her shoes off; her feet, on top of being bloody, were now beginning to numb over. She decided, therefore, to get herself some warm compresses and perhaps a bottle of gin. It would be easy to drown out her miseries when her mind was numbed with her feet; hell, Jake and Sherry would join her.   
  
Finally, she finished latching the rest of the windows up. With a sigh, she turned around, surveying the room that she and her Hedgehog had once shared. She began to walk out…but then stopped.   
  
_Oh my god._   
  
Her eyes had glanced upon the closet door, and her heart began to pound. Quickly, her hand grasped the side of the door frame, and her hand was on the door handle.   
  
_Oh my god._   
  
Her heart began to race faster. On the door handle was a blue metal hanger. Upon the metal hanger was an item.   
  
_Scott….._ Her lip began to quiver. _Why…._   
  
Her hand with the metal hangar raised up as high as it could go, and Mary got a complete picture of what she had been given. It was Scott's jacket, but it was not the same as when she had last seen it. For one thing, it was devoid of the smells of dirt and oils and gases which, as a mechanic, Scott would have covered himself in. Instead, it smelled completely of Scott, of Scott in a desert, as he had been the last time she had seen him, when they had been out in the Mojave together, watching the ethereal desert sunset.   
  
The second, more visual difference was upon the back of the jacket. The little hedgehog emblem was still there, in its odd blue color, staring back at Mary. This time, however, there was a word under it. It was one word, also in blue, but with a small, canary yellow back border. Both colors were awkwardly, perhaps even hurriedly, stitched into the jacket. It was from Scott's sewing, Mary knew, which was somewhat imperfect because some of the yellow stitches on the curved border crossed over clumsily into the blue, a mistake that Scott always made whenever he took on sewing anything.   
  
But despite the imperfection, the word he sewed on was unmistakably clear. One word: **_SONIC_**.   
  
It was then Mary knew, and understood. She wiped her eyes, and began to smile, though tears still fell from her eyes. He wasn't gone forever; he was just away for awhile. It had not been an end; it had been a beginning. He was no longer Scott, but only to a small extent was this true. Scott was himself, and "sonic"…..   
  
_Thank you……Hedgehog….._ Then, though this time it was because she was overjoyed by Scott's message to her, Mary burst into tears again. She did not hear the front door open, nor did she hear Jake's bewildered shouts. _Thank you……._   
  
-----------------   
  
It all began that night, as Mary sat herself down in front of her typewriter. It was one of the few things she had left from Long Island, back from when she was younger, and she had not really used it in years. She wondered if it still worked. She had put in a new ink cartridge, but she knew full well that if any of the swing mechanisms were rusted, she would have to get a new typewriter. Or she could write it on paper, but she was resolved to write the story. Scott's story.   
  
***Ch-CINK!***   
  
The O went on the page, black as could be, and Mary gave a sign of relief. She bent her fingers down and up to prepare herself for the haul. Then, before beginning, she looked back on her husband's jacket and smiled.   
  
_This is for you._   
  
Then, with a nod and a deep sigh of relaxation, Mary began her work. It would be a long night, but she knew what she had to say. In less than a minute, she had the first paragraph completely down.   
  
  
**_Once upon a time, when the world was in a greater turmoil, there lived a small blue hedgehog. He could run faster than the speed of sound, and he was loved and admired by the all innocents he defended. Everyone knew his name; he was a legend of his time. His name was Sonic._**   
  
  
  



	17. The Jacket Found

---0o0---   
  
  
_October 14, 1987_   
  
  
The sun was beginning to set as Joan O'Meara and Naoto Ohshima left the Edwards Army Hospital. They had been trying for two hours straight to get in; with everyone hanging in the lobby, demanding time in a certain person's hospital room, it was impossible. The story was too big for mortals outside of the journalist realm to even do anything about it, and the two had been ordered to leave by several nurses. They, along with several others, would not be seeing Meg tonight, perhaps not ever again.   
  
"…..Well….." Joan rubbed her face. "What a day."   
"_Hai_." Naoto's voice seemed distant with wonder. "Incededeibele."   
"…You have to wonder if….." Joan paused. "….Come on. We've got some driving ahead of us."   
  
The two got into the car, silent. As Joan got into the car, she looked up into the sky, then towards the hospital window where New York Times financial reporter Margaret Rye lay. The victim of a terrible accident, she should have died in a fireball effect from the crash of three WWII-era planes, but something happened. She was saved somehow.   
  
The faded figure of a doctor was bent down next to her, along with several reporters, and Joan could only guess what they could be asking. A miracle, yes; an unexplainable one at that, but the reporters were obviously going to have a field day. Joan and Naoto, of course, did not yet know what Meg knew; they simply knew the ghost story of Scott Garnet.   
  
"…..Heh." Joan looked out beyond the dashboard. "I guess some things can't be explained. We could only wish that the ghost of Scott Garnet was free, right?"   
"…_Hai_."   
"Forty years ago, he died. Then he lived on as Sonic - at least according to veterans' tales. He was a storybook character to me. But...I wonder….." Joan gave a chuckle. "Nah, never mind. Its crazy, but you have to wonder if the jacket was why he remained here, if he was still here. If he existed as a ghost and such."   
"What do you mean, _if_?"   
"Well, I….Naoto?"   
  
Joan paused. The voice that just spoke didn't sound like Naoto.   
  
"Nao…"   
  
She slowly turned quizzically at Naoto. Her heart stopped when she saw him turned towards the back, his eyes almost bugged out. She slowly turned her eyes towards the back, and she almost screamed.   
  
"You dropped your purse." He held up Joan's swinging bag from the tip of his pointer finger for Joan and Naoto to see. "You should be happy that I found it before the cops and reporters found me."   
  
He sat on the back seat, his beloved pilot jacket, somehow taken from the hospital room, hanging off of his shoulders. His short blue legs were spread; one sat on the pile of books in the car, the other hung off of the seat towards the floor. His skin, with the exception of a few patches of light apricot, around his face and his hands, was a bright, almost blinding blue. The few tufts of hair on his head, and his small, seemingly sharp spikes, they were also blue. He wore a pair of bright red sneakers with whie streaks about them, though they were slightly worn from constant use.   
  
For a moment, there was complete silence. His brown eyes looked back and forth toward the two humans, waiting for a reply.   
  
"S……..s……"   
  
Joan's mouth was wide open. The bottom lip bobbed up and down, trying to work with the throat box to form syllables, words, _anything_. Yet she could find no way to speak; there was no way to describe it. There had been no thunderous foreboding this time, no blazed trail of dust, no fuzzy shadow in the wind or fire, not even wind. He was just _there._   
  
"Hey, I don't bite." He gave a soft smile, almost like a smirk, just as Scott had once done on the day he last saw Mary. "Didn't mean to startle you like that, Joan. That's your name, right?"   
  
Like a puppet, Joan's head bobbed slowly up and down. Slowly, in a dream-like movement, she took her purse back, her hand touching his skin, even squeezing his finger, as she slid the handle off. At her squeezing, his blood vessels throbbed under the pressure.   
  
"Heh." Sonic slowly wiggled his finger from her hand. "Sorry. Squished my finger a bit there."   
"R……..right……"   
  
Joan looked at Naoto, who stared at the creature in total fascination. It was as if a new light struck him from looking upon the new passenger, a flash of inspiration. His face had brightened up completely.   
  
"_So….niku_?"   
"If that's what you want to call me." Sonic stretched onto the backseat. Both of his sneakered feet landed on the books while his head rested near the window. He rubbed his nose and rubbed his back spikes to adjust them to the car side. "Most people call me that. They say I can break the sound barrier and overcome the resistance of the sonic wind factor. When I do that, there's a sonic boom. There's some truth to it," He smirked again. "Whether or not you want to believe it is your choice."   
"….Scott."   
"Hmm?"   
"You're-"   
"Dead? Not really." Sonic closed his eyes as he propped his hands under his head. "If _that_ were true, why, how could I have come back for my jacket? Couldn't leave the States without it. Kind of forgot it back in Rome, then it takes me almost half a century to find it!" One of his hands produced the SONIC name decal and the silhouette patch, both tattered and with burnt edges. "Ah well. The stitches on this burned up, but at least I was able to save them."   
"…..seat belt."   
"Huh?"   
"Please…." Joan was still not sure if what she was experiencing was real. "Please put on….your seat belt."   
"…Oh. Right."   
  
Abruptly, the hedgehog sat up, his hand on the seat belt. With a movement quicker than lightning, he clasped it in. When he did this, a loud sound came from his stomach, and he grinned sheepishly.   
  
"Uh, say…not to be a jerk about all this barging in and stuff….you wouldn't happen to have some food here, would you? I'm kind of hungry, and you can only live on scraps for so long."   
  
For the first time since seeing him in the back, Joan gave a chuckle. She put the car into drive and out on the radio. The guitar rift of Pink Floyd began to drift into the speakers.   
  
_"So, so you think you can tell……heaven from hell….._" The sound of Roger Waters' voice then filtered in. "Blue skies from pain….can you tell a green field…."   
  
"We'll get some food on the way. We have a ways to go before San Francisco, either way."   
  
_A braggart,_ her mind recalled the first SONIC book, long forgotten by many others, as she began to drive out of the hospital parking lot. _He could be braggart, heroic, and cocky, but in truth he was innocent and good with a heart of gold. Everyone knew of him, but few knew that with all his actions and feats, he truly had no real mean bone in his body. Because he truly existed to help people and be a friend, to put himself in danger when no one else would. But even then, he was nothing more than a little blue hedgehog to some._   
  
"_Did they get you to trade….your heroes for ghosts? Hard ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze? Cold comfort for change?…_"   
  
The sun was beginning to dip behind the hills as the car drove onto the main base road, past the airfield and out into the open desert. Joan and Naoto said nothing; however, they wore smiles on their face, smiles as bearers of an incredible secret that only they (and, to an extent, Meg) truly knew of.   
  
"_…..walk-on part in the war, for a lean role in a cage?_"   
  
There was nothing to interrupt the scenery as it dashed by him, so Sonic squirmed in the seat belt. After he managed to turn himself enough, he pressed his nose and hands against the back window. It gave him a panoramic view. The silhouette of the desert landscape, the colors that it created, seemed to go on forever, making the desert look as if there was no end. The purples and oranges of the clouds that hung high up accented the sinking sun in the western sky. As Sonic looked towards the eastern horizon, the colors became darker until they had all become blackish blue, with only the dim stars to light the sky beyond that point. He gave a smile of remembrance, to a day long past, back to a time when things had been a little simpler, when he took his last good look at a desert sunset with the girl he loved. This treat was just an extra to him; it was good enough to finally be able to begin his real work, now that he had his jacket back.   
  
"_How I wish, how I wish you were here…_"   
"Beautiful," he murmured.   
  
Nodding with a smile, he turned back towards the front. He crossed his arms, looking back and forth from Joan to Naoto.   
  
"…..Hey say, Naoto…."   
"_Hai_?"   
"Where do you live?"   
"Tokyo."   
"Never been." He had an idea of where to start, and he had the feeling Naoto knew it. "So, I'm sure the Japanese countryside is rebuilt by now."   
"It is _pedeity_." Naoto took out a small pad and began to scribble in the dark. "Tokyo City, it have neon light and many building, different from before. Very _hekek_…..hehek…?"   
"Hectic." Joan spotted another McDonald's. "Here we can get off for food…. ."   
"Hectic, huh?"   
"_Hai_…..but _beiauteifoul _and…._colaful_ at night."   
"….Hectic and pretty…."   
  
Sonic's smile returned. Somewhere within his hedgehog body, he could feel the human urge to go for the opportunity. His life, even now, after all of the changes, wasn't going to be the same again.   
  
"Sounds _nice_."

  



	18. Epilogue

  
  
  
  
  
  
_Project Blue Gale was de-classified in July of 1948, published in a carefully abridged version by the government. Chuck Yeager was immediately hailed as an American hero, 'the fastest man alive', and all who had worked on the project were awarded special citations by the United States government. Many of those who worked on it have since passed, though the legacy of their work lives on the supersonic jets and planes developed both for military and commercial purposes. Several still live in the Muroe area, and Yeager himself, 80 in February of 2003, lives in California still.   
  
  
Due to the nature of the information, all files concerning the truth of Captain Scott Garnet's involvement were not de-classified until 1998 - the 50th anniversary of the X-1's successful mission. Likewise, all information concerning Garnet's cause of death -officially stated as a result of the hangar-related fire that had actually occurred September 15th - were classified until they were opened at the request of several inquiring parties. Nevertheless, Scott Garnet was posthumously awarded the Prisoner of War medal in 1967 for his services during the campaigns in Salerno and Termoli. He was awarded the Medal for Humane Action in 1999 for saving the life of Chuck Yeager, and a Bronze Star Medal for non-combat work.   
  
  
John Redson was courtmartialed for treason, sabotage, conduct unbecoming of a soldier, involuntary manslaughter of a fellow officer and attempted murder of a fellow officer by the military, resulting in a request for his execution by electrocution. He was also blacklisted by the House UN-American Activities Committee, in a closed-door session, for his actions during Project Blue Gale. His sentence was deferred in 1952 during the Rosenburg scandal, to a sentence of 126 years. He died two years later of alcohol-related cirrosis.   
  
  
Mary Garnet went on to publish seven children's books, titled 'SONIC the Hedgehog', under Putnam, from 1949 to 1957 (last published in 1974), as well as a lesser-known set of books called 'Mysteries with a Meow', about the neigborhood adventures of a squabbling cat and dog detective team (last published in 1967). Her most famous book, however, was a controversial biography of her husband, 'Behind the Wind'. It was censored and banned in the US for its reference to classified material on Termoli; New York Times Co. v. United States forced the US to re-allow publication. Garnet died on January 5, 1974 in a car accident in Buffalo.   
  
  
Sherry Garnet went on to become a paralegal, then a romance writer, before becoming the president of a non-for-profit organization dedicated to the preservation of war memorabilia in upstate New York. She lives in Messina, New York, as Sherry Nocteau, and has two children and seven grandchildren.   
  
  
Hiriam Garnet died of tuberculosis on December 2, 1947 in Yorba Linda, California. He willed all of his possessions to Mary Garnet and her daughter.   
  
  
Margaret Rye and Joan O'Meara became the most vocal of advocates for the declassification of Scott Garnet's files. Rye still lives in New York City, though she resigned from the Journal and is now a financial analyst for several stock corporations; O'Meara moved to Dallas and teaches history at Texas A & M. The two still communicate regularly.   
  
  
Naoto Ohshima acquired most of the copyrights to the SONIC name in 1987-1988, and went on to create the SEGA version of Sonic the Hedgehog as we know him today. Sonic is now one of the most recognizable names and faces in gaming and commercial retail. He has appeared in approximately 100 games, starring in at least 30 of his own games. It has also spun off books, four different TV shows, an OAV, a possible movie, several comics and countless amounts of related merchandise. Currently, Ohshima is also lobbying the acquisition of the remaining rights to Sonic the Hedgehog from Putnam in order to re-release the SONIC books.   
  
  
  
The true Sonic, and Scott Garnet still live today, as do all of his friends and loved ones who are not with us. The only way to find them is to break the sound barrier...and look to the Sonic Wind._   
  
  


****

THE END 


	19. Appendix: Introduction

**Introduction to the Appendix**

Ever since the end of _The Sonic Wind,_ both here and on several other websites (as they were shown simultaneously), a lot of people have asked me about the truth surrounding the story of Scott Garnet. Is it true? Did Mary Garnet exist? Will all people become furry in the afterworld? Where can I find the Garnet books?

I wrote The Sonic Wind because I knew loved the idea of a historically-set Sonic fanfiction – if done right, it would be good. After realizing that it was _too good, I realized I needed to set the facts straight. That was the original intent of the Appendix, to explain the actual origin of the story. I know that not everything was explained, but some of those questions – the questions concerning the Sonic afterlife, and what happened to Mary, Sherry, Meg and others in Scott's life both directly and indirectly – will be explained one day very soon, if the Sonic reader is willing to wait again._

So, yes, that was the original intent. Then, I decided to include some other stuff – some of the original writings and revisions I did for some of the chapters. I normally don't keep changes I make to a fanfic, but in the case of this one, I decided it was best.

There is a reason why as well. Back in August, right in the middle of writing The Sonic Wind, my computer crashed – and I almost lost three and a half chapters, almost five months of work. Those chapters were 6-8 and parts of chapter 9 – probably the most important parts of the story concerning character development. I was completely devastated, but realized I had to re-write. I had gotten through a new Ch. 6 and the beginning of a new Ch. 7 when my computer was back up, my files restored. I also got my Internet access back up in time to show the new Ch. 6 on the date I had originally intended to show it.

After looking over what I had written, and what I originally had, I decided to replace the original Ch. 6 with my new version, keep the original Ch. 7, and slightly revise Ch. 8 to reflect the changes in Ch. 6. Now, however, you will see what was originally in mind for Ch. 6 and Ch. 8 – the revision in the latter regarded Scott's conversation with Mary and was created with a completely different scenario in mind before I decided it was much too confusing – as well as the beginning of what would have been the revision of Ch. 7 before the files were restored. None of the original Margaret Rye chapters were ultimately changed.

That is how the story looks today, and for once I'm glad my computer crashed.

-Cooki


	20. Appendix: Original Story vs Adaptation

The Sonic Wind: The Original Sonic Team Story vs. The Adaptation 

  
  


**_(NOTE: The following IS NOT A HOAX. That which you are about to read is true and accurate information, and is to the best of my knowledge the full truth behind the original story as explained by various sources. The following passages come from authenticated sources.)_**

  
  
  
Yes. I might as well admit it here and now: **The Sonic Wind** was not an original idea of mine. Unlike **HYBRID**, **Battery** and all my other stuff (which, even with the copyright characters, are original plots derived from my evil head), this story was......(Go ahead, gasp)...._adapted_.   
  
Which I'm sure raises another question for those reading: _Where the hell did you get this story?_ Honestly? It couldn't have come from a better source than Sonic Team itself - and, according to some, from Naoto Ohshima. It is a piece of Sonic dogma which has existed for a decade - an undeveloped piece, a relatively unknown piece that no one knows of (save for SEGA purists), but a piece nonetheless. If I ever brought the fic to the attention of Sonic Team, they may actually stand up and give a look; it from that type of authentic source that the original story comes from. (Or not.)   
  
  
**The Original Sonic Wind**   
  
The original story that **The Sonic Wind** comes from was perceived as a three-part story, back during the days when Sonic was being developed, or sometime after the first Sonic game came out. However, it is indicated by the sources that have found the story that this has been around since the early times of Sonic. It is generally called "The Garnet story", though normally it only implies to the very first story of the arc (Scott Garnet's story). According to the theory of one fan, Psxphile, the episode guide seems to go as such:   
  
_Episode 1: Mary Grannet, Chuck Yeager, Sherry story   
Episode 2: Freelance camera woman Meg story   
Episode 3: The "adapted" Sonic background which became the basis for the games_   
  
The way I was originally made aware that the story even existed was through several posts at The Mobius Forum, where various translated Sonic the Hedgehog texts were being discussed, as were theories to go behind the original Sonic stories (which are somewhat heavily edited for Americans). At one point, one fan, Project Blue Gale, posted this, from the **Sonic Adventure 2/SLE Sonic 10th Anniversary Box Set Booklet**:   
  
  
_"There are three Sonic episodes, which were talked about since the initial stage of development, evolving in three different worlds. One of them, the fairy tale version, is introduced below."   
  
"Mary Grannet is a well known fairy tale writer during the 20th century, but only few people know that her husband was a pilot in the Airforce. Her husband's hair was always sharp-ended up straight because of his helmet. So Mary said to him teasingly, "Your hair looks just like a hedgehog."   
There was a daughter between them named Sherry. But most of the time her father was flying in the air, so she had very few chances to meet with her father. Not to make her daughter feel lonely, Mary used to let Sherry hear a fairy tale. A fairy tale which is about "SONIC: the Hedgehog who runs faster than sound."   
As time goes by, the world of the fairy tale has spread rapidly. An adventure at the world of wonder, a mystic jungle, a stormy ocean, the ancient city, the lost continent…Sonic's activity has pushed forward. Wherever Sonic finds the bad guy, he immediately appears by his boastful speed to help people. Story of the hedgehog, who has a mind of justice, wisdom and courage, has eased up her loneliness very well. Sherry was especially about the story of love between Sonic and his girlfriend, because her mother seems to be very young and beautiful when her story comes to the point. Later on, Sherry will realize that her mother's fairy tale was a true story."_   
  
However, according to Psxphile several posts later: _"Sonic Team seems to have left that "episode" in the closet, as they don't use it as a reference at all (according to the text, they only talked about it)."_ More speculation on that later.   
  
Anyways, Psx also notes that the above story is an abridged version, and he posts the original Garnet story(ies) in its known entirety:   
  
  
**_The Background Story: Sonic's Origin._**_   
  
  
Mary Garnet was a popular writer of children's books in the __U.S.__ during the 1940's. Her Husband was a test pilot for the __U.S.__ Air Force. His secret project was code named "Blue Gale" who's goal was to produce the first plane that would break the sound barrier. Mary affectionately nick-named her husband "Hedgehog" because of the way his hair always struck straight up when he took off his flight helmet. The nickname stuck and it inspired Mary to decorate his leather flight jacket with a blue cartoon mascot. Since her husband was so busy flying for the Air Force, Mary had to fill in for him raising their only daughter Sherry. Mary would spend the afternoons making up stories to tell Sherry and her friends. Oddly enough, it would always seem that a hedgehog would be the hero of the story. "Sonic" the hedgehog had many fantastic adventures usually protecting innocent people and little animals from evil men.   
  
Sherry used to love hearing these stories and Mary used to love telling them to lots of children for many years (these stories and their characters were used as the basis for the Sonic video games from Sega. SEE: The Game Story).   
  
In 1947, Chuck Yeager (also a test pilot for the __U.S.__ Air Force) became the first man to break the sound barrier to become the "fastest man alive". But a little known incident took place earlier on the same day that has been lost in the record books, eclipsed by the historic event. Another pilot called Hedgehog had set out to break the same record but with tragically different results. His ill-fated jet plane was rocketing towards the speed record when it suddenly started to vibrate violently and then exploded in a tremendous fireball! Nobody seems to remember the real name of the brave pilot, but old-timers around the airport still remember the emblem of Sonic the blue hedgehog......   
  
  
_(The story then shifts to "episode 2", Meg's story.)_   
  
  
About forty years later, a freelance camera woman named Meg came to town on an assignment to cover an upcoming Air Show. As she stopped for lunch, she decided to browse through an interesting looking Antique shop near the airport. Inside she discovered a very dusty old leather flight jacket with the emblem of a strange character and the letters S-O-N-I-C on the back. She tried to decide if this character was a lion, a cat, or some other strange animal. But something drew her to it and she instantly liked it a lot. She tried it on and the shopkeeper couldn't help but notice:   
  
"Say Lady..... looks like that Jacket is just your size! Do you like it?"   
  
"Why yes! It's great! It's a little dirty but.......do you know what this word SONIC means? It sounds strangely familiar. Like I've heard it before....."   
  
"Well, I guess it's probably the name of that funny-lookin critter on the back."   
  
"Sonic.. yes Sonic!... Oh I remember, he is SONIC THE HEDGEHOG! I used to hear the stories from an old neighbor lady when I was a little girl. He's a little hedgehog that can run faster than sound!"   
  
Meg laughed out loud as the rush of childhood memories poured back to her. She dusted off the old jacket, eagerly paid for it, and she giggled to herself as she wore it out of the store. This immediately became a favorite possession and she wore it everywhere. She could not explain the strange sensation she felt when she was wearing this jacket, but something made her feel quite comfortable and safe with it on.   
  
Upon arriving at the Air Show, Meg started taking pictures of all the vintage aircraft. At one point during the show, a group of old WW2 planes were doing a low-level formation fly-by when suddenly one of the planes veered off and fell to the ground! In the panic of the following explosion, Meg found herself surrounded by fire. She tried to escape but became disoriented as all she could see was a wall of flame. Suddenly a hand reached out and grabbed her just as she was passing out from the intense heat. As she slipped into unconsciousness, all she could see was a strange blue form and she felt the sensation of tremendous acceleration.   
  
Meg woke up staring at the ceiling of a hospital room. She was a little singed and badly shaken, but not really hurt. "Have I been dreaming?" she asked herself. Her nurse told her that she had been found unconscious lying on a grassy hill miles from the airport. No one could explain how she got there, but her jacket had been burned and Meg noticed that the emblem had disappeared! Could it be? She had this strange idea that somehow Sonic must have saved her, but she stopped short of saying anything because she didn't want to sound crazy. Even though it seemed impossible, all she could say was "I don't know.....".   
  
Later, as she developed the pictures in the camera of the last moments of the Air Show, Meg's heart stopped as the last exposure came into view. It showed the blurred image of a large pair of red shoes with a white stripe.....   
  
SONIC!!!   
  
Was it really him? What other explanation? She was confused....but it seemed so real! A moment later, she gasped with excitement at the thought of seeing him again.   
  
  
**The Game Story: (adapted from the Sonic Stories of Mary Garnet)**   
  
  
Sonic was born on a small island called __Christmas Island__. But his love for adventure called him away and he has visited so many different places on Earth that he doesn't really have a place he considers to be home. The Sonic stories center around his favorite group of islands including __South Island__ (Sonic 1), __Westside__Island__ (Sonic 2), and __Angel__Island__ (Sonic 3).__ The first Sonic Story is located on __South Island__ which is quite beautiful. This island is known for the curious fact that it floats around in the ocean. That is why it can not be found on any map. Sonic is fond of sitting on it's beach in his beach chair, wearing sunglasses, and listening to cool rock music. Sonic loves to sing in his own rock band, and enjoys being with his friends, but he is just as happy to be alone.   
  
Sonic would be very happy enjoying his own pastimes were it not for the constant intrusions of his arch rival Dr. Robotnik (also sometimes known as Eggman because of his round shape). The evil doctor seems to have an endless supply of fiendish plots to take over the world, but Sonic seems to always find a way to frustrate his plans and keep him at bay. This has given Sonic somewhat of a celebrity status with the local inhabitants and he is loved by all as much as Robotnik is hated by all.   
  
__Westside__Island__ is a very ancient island with plenty of treasures and ancient ruins. It is also said to contain a small supply of a very powerful natural crystals called "Chaos Emeralds". These multi-colored emeralds have tremendous energy and could be used to create the most powerful nuclear bombs and laser weapons if they fell into the wrong hands. Legend says that they exist here, but nobody can remember actually seeing them. The reason for this is that the Chaos Emeralds exist in a _different dimension_ and no one has yet been able to find a way to actually possess them.   
  
One day, Dr. Robotnik heard the stories of the Chaos Emeralds and he vowed to do whatever it took to acquire them for his own evil purposes. He, and his henchmen, built a huge fortress where he made robots of many types and sent them off to find the Chaos Emeralds. Sonic stood up in defiance of Robotnik's troops and kicked them all back into the fortress telling them never to come out again. But the evil doctor had other plans. as he sulked away, he vowed that he would find the Chaos Emeralds, and he would get his revenge on Sonic the Hedgehog.   
  
A short time later, Sonic made an amazing discovery. His friends had all disappeared! Robotnik had been capturing all of the defenseless animals in the countryside and had changed them into robots! Dr. Robotnik was converting Sonic's friends into slaves and now only Sonic to save them! Can Sonic do it? Will Robotnik succeed in his quest for the emeralds while exacting his revenge on Sonic? Can Sonic subdue the hoards of robot animals without hurting his friends inside? Will Robotnik take over the _whole world_?   
  
So begins the video game saga of Sonic the Hedgehog......_   
  
  
And that is, as far as it can be discerned, the **ORIGINAL** Sonic origin story. The preceding has been confirmed as being a part of the "Sonic the Hedgehog Technical Files", which was translated by the Sega Technical Institute (STI), a now defunct American subcompany of Sega quite some time ago. It was also shown by another translator big smile on another forum. Who actually managed to get the translations from STI, however, is still unknown.   
  
And now you are saying, "Well, Cooki, that's all fine and dandy. But if this is really the origin story, why isn't it so well known to the Sonic fans?" I feel, for certain obvious reasons, that it would be prudent to explain how it is possible for a fan writer to write something based on a story that is almost as elusive as the Holy Grail. Several possibilities come up:   
  
-The original intention of the story as relating to the games' popularity   
-The introduction of the "universes"   
-The falling out between Naoto Ohshima and Yuji Naka and Sega's financial troubles in the mid-90's   
  
First is the games' popularity, and how the Garnet story is related to it. According to Pepperidge of GHZ, the foremost theory surrounding the Garnet story was that it was intended to be made into a movie, or into a series of movies a la a trilogy. There was an obvious intention for it to be the origins of Sonic, albeit an alternate universe of the real world-type story, to cash in on the huge popularity of Sonic in the early 1990's. However, the big reasons for it not being realized are mentioned below.   
  
Next, the split dogma between SEGA of America/Europe and SEGA of Japan allowed the introduction of various different storylines to emerge across the Pacific. Even now, categorizing characters, places and events between the original game stories (which were not faithful to the Japanese version until the Sonic Adventure seires), a new Japanese series called _Sonic X_ (which is an "alternate universe" of the games), two American-made Saturday morning cartoons _(Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog_ and the more beloved and popular _Sonic the Hedgehog_, also called "SatAM") the Archie comic book (based off of SatAM), several American-made Sonic games which did not follow the original storyline or were based off of the shows, and even a British comic book which followed the original story least of all. The various "universes" have been embraced and loathed by fans alike, and few can always tell the difference between where the story takes place (Mobius or Earth?) or who Sonic's "girl" is (Amy? Sally? Fiona? Mina? Tails? You pimp, Sonic!).   
  
Last, and perhaps more important, is the internal problems that Sega and Sonic Team were experiencing which most likely cancelled the possibility of creating the Garnet story as a movie series. Naoto Ohshima - who was the backbone behind most of the early Sonic stories, as well as the most likely writer of the Garnet story - would quit Sonic Team sometime around 1999 due to various control and creative issues with Yuji Naka, the head of Sonic Team. This departure, along with the financial troubles that Sega began to experience, no doubt lessened the chance of working the story to reality until there was practically no chance at all.   
  
  
**The Adaptation**   
  
There are many differences, too many differences to count, that I made in The Sonic Wind. The major ones, of course, were to bring a more historically accurate landscape to the stories and to give the characters much more depth. Therefore, because Blue Gale was a government officiated project according to the Sonic Team story, and Yeager's project was the only supersonic project in existence that was actually controlled by the government (as Bell was the only official contractor for the Army's supersonic jet), it would have been utterly folly for there to be two rivaling projects. Plus, to ignore the effects of World War II would also be a negative because it would be impossible to find someone who wasn't deeply affected by it, and as a pilot Scott would have seen action.   
  
  
_Scott? Huh?_   
  
I figured that to just do a story on the flight would be completely flat. As a result, the adaptation also turned into a character study of Scott, which isn't such a bad thing considering we are talking about the man who would be Sonic. The reason I picked Scott is because "John" is too plain, and in fact the Scott sounded much better on the tongue with Garnet. That, and during character development, my older sister's friend Scott Burgess was over every Thursday night for morning classes in our nearby city, Utica. He was also the basis for which Scott's character design comes from (yes, his hair was like that).   
  
But you didn't come to hear about Scott. You want to know about the _real_ XS-1.   
  
  


  
_The True Story of the XS-1 - Abridged_   
  
The real story is very long, and (despite what I write otherwise) a little more boring.   
  
In the 1940s, various countries had been searching for a way to prefect a jet that would go faster than the speed of sound. By the middle of World War II, there were two front runners - Britain and the United States. However, it was very dangerous, and in fact, several pilots in the British Royal Air Force had died trying to get past the "wall of air" (as the sound barrier was called). After the death of famed aviator Geoffrey de Havilland in 1944, Britain officially abandoned their projects, and it was left to various American contractors to solve the "supersonic problem".   
  
In 1946, Bell Company's government contracted supersonic jet project, by then the most advanced of all and the only one endorsed by the military, was completely taken over by the US government and labeled as top-priority and top secret. It originally retained most of its original members, including a civilian pilot named Chalmers Goodlin, but he was cut when he asked to be paid more as they got closer to Mach 1.0 and the danger escalated. They then brought in salaried Army pilots from Wright-Patterson AFB in Ohio to do the work, and assigned them to a top secret airfield at Edwards AFB near Muroc Dry Lake (also called Muroc), which is located in the Mojave Desert, over an hour north of Los Angeles. The primary was Captain Chuck Yeager, the secondary was Lieutenant Robert Hoover. Captain Jack Ridley was appointed the project head, as well as the main engineer, while Colonel Albert Boyd was the overseer of the project for the Army and the head to which the crew reported to. Other than Boyd, there were hardly any other high-ranking Army officials, and the men were mostly left to their own devices, which included going to a nearby off-base bar called Pancho Barnes.   
  
Though there were some turbulence problems, it was through several engineering modifications that these problems were ultimately conquered and the tests ran fairly smoothly. The final test was on October 14, 1947, where Yeager broke the sound barrier at 1.06 Mach. However, one thing about the flight that was hidden until afterwards was that Yeager had suffered an injury from a horse accident two days prior to the historical flight. He had broken several ribs after he fell off, and he cleverly managed to hide the wound by having his ribs taped up to stifle the pain, as going to the Army doctors would have cancelled his chances of flying. That was most likely the most injury that anyone on the project had received, with the possible exception of Hoover, who ended up in a plane accident that resulted in his being cut as secondary (this, however, could not be elaborated on with the information that was researched). No deaths occurred during the American projects.   
  
It is also an interesting note that, in XS-1, the X is the model name of the jet, while the S meant "supersonic". The 1 meant the jet version that was being used (as in it was the 1st usable version of the jet). The S was dropped after Mach 1.0 was reached. (Hence it could inspire something like "Sonic **X**", perhaps?)   
  
  
Anyways, that is the end of my thrilling guide to how everything came about. If you have any questions, or you want me to add something, feel free to e-mail me at Dr Papirini10839@aol.com.   
  
Enjoy.   
  
__

_Special thanks to Pepperidge, Lee, Psxphile, Gale and big smile for both the information and their aid in finding the information concerning the Sonic Technical Files.   
  
Also, I'd like to thank the following site for their information:   
  
The GHZ   
ChuckYeager.Com   
National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics   
Astronautix.Com   
AcePilots.Com   
Smithsonian National Air and Space Musuem   
Sonic HQ   
Chuck Yeager and the Bell X-1   
Bell X-1   
Another Bell X-1 page   
Battle of Salerno   
Mach 1.0 and Beyond   
USAF Air Divisions   
  
  
There are many, many other people I'd also like to thank, including Scott Burgess, all my online beta readers and my family, for being quizzical about exactly what I was up to.   
  
Again, this was a great experience, and I hope all of you enjoyed it as much as I did!_

_-Cooki,   
__October 1st, 2003__; __November 24th, 2003__  
  
___


	21. Appendix: The Original Ch 6

**VI**

  
  
  
_September 6, 1947_  
  
  
_My Hedgehog,  
  
How are you this week? We are doing very wonderful. Sherry is enrolled into Cianfracco's preschool, and she's learning how to read some very complex books now. She's got a first grade reading level, I'm told. I think you'd be very proud of her; I know she is proud of herself. She always asks about you, and I know I won't be able to explain to her very well, because everything you do now is so secret.   
  
Your father Hiriam's doing all right, but he can't shake the cough. He went to the doctor this past Tuesday, and he said that they said he was "fine", though the cough's getting worse and the doctor's been calling him quite a bit. I've also been finding some dark residue on his shirts whenever I've been washing them. No matter what, he's not telling me anything, and I'm quite a bit worried.  
  
Also, I am planning on coming to you at the end of this month, if its all right to do so. My brother Jake came up to see me from the island three days ago, and he thinks that all of us coming to see you for a weekend or something like that would be a swell idea. Of course, we have no idea where you are, or if its even safe to go out there with all the protocol you must be under. Will it be all right, if we could come sometime in two or three weeks?  
  
Also, I want you to go see a doctor yourself while you're here. I noticed before you left that you seemed depressed, and if the battle fatigue's come back, I want you to go see someone about it right away. I don't want you to be a complete wreck, and I certainly don't want you to be down on yourself over nothing. Besides which, I have a surprise for you when or if we get to see you before October.  
  
  
I love you, Hedgehog, and Sherry and I send you our best.  
  
  
Love,  
Mary  
  
  
  
  
__September 10, 1947__  
  
  
Dear Mary,  
  
It is good to see that you are doing well, as well as Sherry. I'm sorry if my letter is brief again, but I am afraid that time and my duties here greatly constrict my writing to you. But I look forward to your next letter as I perform my job here.  
  
I look forward to hopefully seeing you soon.  
  
Your Hedgehog,  
Scott  
XXOOLL_  
  
  
  
  
_September 14, 1947_  
  
  
"**Looking good, Captain, Looking good. Over.**"  
"**Roger that. Over.**"  
  
Richard Frost nodded as the correspondence switched back and forth on the Muroe tower radio. He wiped his brow as he replied.  
  
"**Copy, Swindell. Relay mark time from ****Hoover**** when maximum is reached. Over.**"  
  
It was a somewhat complex way of receiving and relaying the messages that Project Blue Gale used; they didn't want their transmissions to be directly caught by any spies or unauthorized personnel that may have decided to eavesdrop. First the messages would come from the pilot of the XS-1, Captain Chuck Yeager; then to the spotter plan manned by Lieutenant Robert Hoover. Hoover then relayed the information to Capt. Edward Swindell, the pilot of the B-29 that was assigned to drop the XS-1 into the sky at 29,000 feet; the aerodynamic design of the jet did not allow it to have wheels to land or take off with.   
  
Finally, the messages from Swindell were received by Richard Frost, Jack Russel, Capt. Jack Ridley and Col. Albert Boyd back at the tower, which was about two stories high. They would likewise return and relay commands to Yeager through the two other pilots.  
  
"**Beginning mark. We're at .91 Mach, over.**"  
"**Proceed with the goal of .95 Mach, over.**"  
"I just damn well hope that Yeager doesn't show off and dive over the tower again." Jack Russel shook his head. "Damn near scared me half to death when I thought he was going to crash."  
"Yeager's the best pilot I've got," Boyd smiled with confidence. "He's a showoff sometimes, but he's certainly not your average gung-ho buckaroo pilot. He knows his limits. I doubt he'll do it again if he's done a trick once."  
  
As the conversation between the heads of the project went on in the tower, the flying was also watched - via binoculars - by Captain Scott Garnet outside on the airfield. At the moment, he was still searching for where the plane was, as it was very far up at the moment (for Yeager was ordered not to fly low again after the tower fiasco several days before). Tedious as it was, however, he felt a great sense of enjoyment.  
  
_He's going really fast…_ Scott thought as his binoculars searched. _Like a blur. I can't find him anywhere…_  
  
"Hey therrrr, Hedgehog…."  
  
Scott turned around, taking off his binoculars. He gave a sigh, shaking his head, as John Redson came towards him, his coordination noticeably off-balance.  
  
"John…." Scott put his hands to his side. "You've been drinking again?"  
"A little." John smiled sheepishly. "Hada throw up a bit. Bu it be all last night, so I'm getting ov'r it well right."  
"You should really stop drinking so much," Scott turned back around. "The NACA is coming tomorrow for a report, right?"  
"Righto, but I'll be right for tomorrow."  
  
With a chuckle, John staggered off, leaving Scott to his own. With another sigh, Scott shook his head and took the binoculars up once more. He searched through the skies, through the cumulonimbus clouds high up. His mind wandered on the color; blue was his favorite color, regardless of the hues.   
  
His mind didn't get the chance to wander for too long. His eye suddenly caught the orange dot, far up into the sky, a small trail of smoke coming from behind it. Though it was very far up to see clearly in the glass, Scot almost thought he could see the plane shaking a bit.  
  
_Its slowing down……_ Scott lowered the binoculars. _I suppose the exercise is already over. That was unusually quick, though, for .95 Mach…._  
  
Slowly, the sleek orange plane began to descend from the sky, the column of smoke coming from it lessening a bit, though not disappearing completely. Slowly, surely, Scott could see Chuck's slightly disappointed face from the cockpit as the plane skidded onto the ground with a loud screech of metal. The plane then tilted to the side as its belly slid several yards on the runway before coming to a complete stop in front of the control tower.  
  
"Chuck!"  
  
Scott started to run towards the smoking plane, but stopped when he heard Ridley running. Several others, including Russel and Frost, suddenly appeared out of nowhere, pushing the young pilot out of the way as they scrambled towards the cockpit.  
  
"Yeager!" Being first, Ridley quickly opened the door to the cockpit. "Jesus, Chuck, something up there exploded!"  
"Yeah. Part of the wing broke, that's all." Chuck smiled warily as he took up his radio. " And the engine almost failed. Bob, you get the speed mark? Over."  
"**…I have .94 Mach on my mark. Over.**"  
"Damn," Ridley nodded as he peeked inside. "Didn't make the target. Looks like Glamorous Glennis may have had some instrument problems going that fast!"  
"Indeed, Jack…."  
  
'Glamorous Glennis' was the nickname that was picked for the XS-1. After everyone had seen Glennis that night back in August had been taken away by her beauty and grace; almost every man in the room felt something towards her, be it truthfully or superficially. The fact that there was the song called "Glamorous Glennis", a song that everyone on the airfield in Muroe pretty much knew by heart from the war, didn't hurt the nickname either.  
  
"All the wind resistance caused the plan to swerve everywhere on top of it." Chuck wiped the sweat off of his brow. "Or maybe it was the reason I was having my problems. I couldn't control the direction all that well with the tail being forced into every which direction."  
"The rocket compressors?"  
"All the swerving caused the wind to whip up into them, so there was no help from them. I was afraid I'd lose the boosters from all the turbulence messing up the instruments as well."  
"Damn." Ridley looked around. "Looks like we've hit the ceiling going cold turkey."  
"We were destined for modifications at this point anyways," Russel looked at the side of the plane, where the wing was chipped. "Wow, the wind did some pretty damage here."  
"Looks like we've got our work cut out for us." Ridley took several steps back. "And when's the NACA agent coming?"  
"Tomorrow at 1000."  
"We'll have to get a move on." As Ridley spoke, the B-29 and the spotter planes both landed on the other side of the airfield. "Boyd'll skewer us all on a stick if we can't get all of this done."  
"Ah, speaking of him, where _is_ the colonel?" Yeager hopped out of the plane. "I have to tell him something. Going as fast as I was just now, I was somehow reminded of the time last week when-"  
"Oh, no no no!" Ridley laughed. "Don't do that! He'll do _more_ than skewer you if you remind him of that right now!"  
"Aw, hell no, he wouldn't _completely_ kill me like that. He'd send a few choice parts of my anatomy back to my wife first before the commencing of any other maiming project." This got a few chuckles. "If I had to die like that, I'm sure that Al would at the _very_ least keep my privates out of _any_ plot he may conceive against me."  
"Oh yeah, I'm _sure_ of that…"  
  
Scott watched Ridley, Russel and Yeager as they chuckled about their superior. They walked off towards the barracks, and Scott could not help but feel slightly jealous towards their close fidelity. Close fidelity was not something he had felt for many years, and seeing it now made him jealous, but perhaps saddened as well.  
  
"Aaah, Hedgehog."  
  
Suddenly Scott felt a hand come down on his shoulder. His head swerved to see Edward Swindell smiling at him.  
  
"Aaah, you've been seeming down a bit lately. Well, don't feel too left out there, Hedgehog." Swindell took his helmet off. "They've all known each other for several years. Its hard sometimes being from a different division for a lot of the people I've met; hell, Yeager had a few problems when he first transferred into the Flight Test Division because of his Southern-sounding accent."  
"….Really?"  
"Yes," Swindell nodded. "But I wouldn't worry too much about them being partial towards your accent….a little off what I was going to say, but where _do_ you originally come from?"  
"Before Rome…." Scott looked at Swindell. "Westbury. Its out on Long Island."  
"Ah, I see." Swindell gave Scott a slap on the back. "Well, before you start working on repairing that slightly broken plane over there, I'll just tell you not to worry so much over their seeming lack of communication to you, Hedgehog. Actually, I'd say some of those men think highly of you for your contributions. Hard workers are," and at this, he may have been referring to Redson and his drinking, as he may a slight face towards his distant figure, "hard to come by. So don't you worry, kid."  
  
With another pat and a nod, Swindell walked off towards the plane hangar, leaving Scott to his thoughts.  
  
_Respect, huh…._ Scott turned towards the plane. _…Well……What is wrong with this plane….._  
  
He started to give the plane a once over, not noticing Bob Hoover walking briskly past him, almost stomping his feet as he went towards Boyd's office barracks.  
  
--------------------------  
  
"Once again, Colonel, I must request-"  
"Bob, do I have to say it one more time…"  
"With all due respect, Colonel, I think we're doing this the wrong way!"  
  
Bob Hoover stood at attention in front of his boss's desk, his face slightly reddened as he spoke. He wore his uniform without a jacket as he stood at ease.   
  
"I think it would be prudent that I could have some time up in Glamorous Glennis, or even the other plane, sir!"  
"Bob," Boyd didn't even look up from his desk as he spoke. "How many times have we been over this? It wouldn't be a good idea for you to go cold turkey."  
"It's a terrible idea to leave me out of the XS-1 exercises," Hoover replied, his face slightly darkened. "I understand that as the superior officer, you would like the more experienced pilot to handle the new equipment….but what will happen to the project if Chuck is injured, or worse, killed? Look at what happened today; the plane was having problems _stabilizing_ in mid-air! What if something happens beyond our control and I had to fly the plane and I had no experience flying it? The entire future of the United States Army Air Force is hanging on this project; you said this yourself. And if so, you certainly can't just hang the fate of our program on one solitary person and expect a project that is still nothing more than an _experiment_ is going to go without any ha-"  
"That's enough, Bob." Boyd still didn't look up at Hoover as he wrote in a journal log. "As much as I sympathize," and at this, he looked at Hoover, "and believe me, I'd let you go up in the other XS-1 jet alongside Chuck if I could. But my orders are otherwise, from the government, from NACA, even from Bell. At the moment, this technology _is_ experimental, yes…..which is why we can only expend one pilot at a time. Which is why we need other pilots to watch in on the progress, which is why we need _everyone_ where they are at the moment, and that includes you marking the speeds. You may or may not think of that as important, and I can't assume that. But the fact that this is an experiment means that I can only use those who can adapt quickly; if they adapt quickly, they may be able to adapt to the existential situations that may come up." Hoover simply looked down at the ground, not looking up towards the colonel. "That, and we have a very short time table. They want us to have someone going supersonic before the end of the year. We don't have the time, nor the ability, to train two men simultaneously."  
  
A knock came on the door. Boyd ignored it and kept speaking.   
  
"This is how precarious our position is, and while we can wish otherwise, we cannot do it. I'm sorry, Lieutenant." Boyd stood up, raising his voice. "My apologies. Who's there?"  
"Ridley, sir. I have Captain Garnet with me."  
"Very well." Boyd turned to Hoover. "Dismissed."  
  
With a half-hearted nod, Hoover turned and left, not once looking up at the colonel. Nor did he even bother to acknowledge Garnet or Ridley, technically his superiors as he left.  
  
"Don't worry, sirs." Boyd sat back down. "I'm afraid Hoover is a little upset over what's going on with the pilot situation"  
"He looks a little down," Ridley remarked. "I guess he's not flying unless something happens to Chuck?"  
"No." Boyd looked up at Scott. "Ah, Captain Garnet. What brings you here?"  
"Well…" Scott took up a piece of paper from his pocket. "I gave the plane a look after it landed, and I think I was able to figure out the problem, sir."  
"With the wind resistance?"  
"Yes, sir." Scott put the paper in front of the colonel. "You see, sir, most of the damage came from the wind resistance found at the speed that Glamorous Glennis was going. The jet plane, though designed to try to buffer the resistance to a minimum, is still obviously having problems with turbulent winds, and therefore wind is managing to hinder the flight of the XS-1, already front heavy with Black Betsy and practically weightless with the tail, with some effectiveness."  
"Mmm hmm….."   
  
Boyd took up the paper. It was a bunch of quick drawings, and had many scribbles on it pertaining to the damage. Some of it was relatively technical; '.50 cm tip break, left, mild but still bad' to simply being '**BAD! THIS IS BAD**' in regards to the boosters.  
  
"And what do you propose we do, Captain?"  
"…Well, sir…."Scott took the paper back. "I'm not in charge, but I would say an extra buffer against stronger resistance is the most obvious course of action, sir."  
"Very well, sir." Boyd pointed towards him. "Agents from the NACA is coming tomorrow to inspect our current progress. You and Captain Ridley have 16 hours to come up with a cost-effective way to solve our problem and make new this buffer a reality. Dismissed, both of you."  
  
With that, the colonel stood up, tucked a pack of papers under his right arm and marched out of the room. Scott blinked; his salute came a little too late, as the colonel had already left as his hand went up to his forehead.  
  
"Well," Ridley's voice came into his ears. "It looks like its just you and me tonight in the plot room."  
"Plot room?"  
"Oh, right, you've never been there." Ridley kept the door open for Scott. "Ah well, we'll have plenty of time to start this up. In the meantime, how about some tenderloin steak and beer down at Barnes…."  
  
----------------------------  
  
The seven hours that had passed went by slowly; they had dinner, picked up some drinks to take back with them, and had even managed to come to some agreement on what was to be done to the plane.  
  
"Ok, Hedgehog, you ready to buckle down?"   
  
Rubbing his eyes, Scott squeezed in and sat down next to Jack Ridley, looking down with little aid from the dim lighting of the so-called "plot room". It was a small, cluttered wooden cell, no more than five feet wide on each side, which was situated in between the wooden huts of the workers. The architect table that Ridley brought with him from his office took up most of this space, as this naturally took up about four feet on each side. The table itself was cluttered with construction plans, blueprints, and diagrams of the XS-1, as well as two cold Budweisers from Pancho Barnes.  
  
"I….think so."  
"Good." Ridley took up one of the diagrams. "We don't want a de Havilland on our hands, eh?"  
"…..A what?"  
"Oh, you don't know." Ridley gave a chuckle as he took a swig from his drink. "Its really well-known among us who's been around here long enough to know. Pretty much the best example of the sonic wind resistance query we've got on our hands."  
"Go on." Scott popped his bottle of beer open.  
"We weren't the only ones working on the supersonic jet idea; Brits were working on this a year or so before us. But they stopped after one of their guys - RAF Colonel George de Havilland - ended up getting in a very, very violent shimmey at the tail from all the wind resistance; plane just couldn't handle it. Pretty much did everything except blow up, only because the Brits say that 'blow up' is the wrong term for it."  
"…The plane exploded?"  
"Yeah." Ridley took up a pencil. "This is what we're working on. Now, then, Hedgehog, we - rather, more I than you - must find a solution to this problem. We know from our little talk back at Barnes that we'll need to stabilize and strengthen the tail so that it doesn't rip right off of our girl out there. Question is, where on the tail should we put this…and what exactly are we going to put on the tail….?"  
"Is this our homework, or at least what's left of it?"  
"You bet." Ridley handed Scott a pencil. "We've got nine hours to get this with all the right specifications and to hand it to Redson and Boyd for Bell and the NACA's approval, so lets get started, shall we?"  
  
For about an hour, the two worked on the plane designs that were given to them. They didn't speak to each other as they worked on the problem; both had gotten into a quiet, concentrated mindset. The only sounds from either of them were the scraping of pencil graphite along the paper and an occasional gurgling and sipping of beer into the mouths of the two mechanics.  
  
"….A hah."  
"Hmm?" Scott turned to Ridley. "You figure something out?"  
"Figured this was the problem." Ridley turned his piece of paper towards Scott. "You get anything like that, Hedgehog?"  
"Sort of…"  
  
Scott looked at the design. It was a swinging rudder on the tail; it was an idea that he had thought of. The difference, however, was that Ridley's design, which seemed to be much looser and less angular then Scott's finned design, was more aerodynamically logical, he realized.  
  
"Mine's got fins, though. I think yours is probably better."  
"It seems we both have the same idea." Ridley smiled. "But, Hedgehog, if we are to compare our designs, why do you think mine is better?"  
"Well, yours is not as top heavy or of as large of an area as mine." Scott paused.   
"Anything else?"  
"Well….the swinging rudder on yours would stabilize the tail by placing the pressure and the wind onto one particular, flexible point, or at least to deflect the pressure enough to keep the tail from ripping off of the jet. This will also lessen the turbulence and the steering problems that the pilot has with a front heavy plane and a flimsy tail weight, right?"  
"You know this plane pretty well for a novice, Hedgehog." Ridley took another swig. "You learn quickly, which is why I like you out of everyone else that came late on this mechanics team. If you weren't an officer here, I'd reckon that at least you'd be going places."  
"Well." Scott was slightly flattered. "I…._have_ been taking calculus and such. And really, measuring out designs and studying mechanical physics is almost all I do in Rome."  
"But its not everything you do. You fly too."  
"Yeah…" Scott nodded. "But certainly not to the degree Chuck or Bob has. I haven't been to a training school."  
"But you fly well."  
"Well, I guess I fly all right."  
"No need to be modest, Hedgehog. That shouldn't be the way of a supersonic pilot."   
"Well, I always thought…"  
  
It took a while for Scott's slightly beer-numbed mind to actually figure out what Ridley had just said. When it did, he whipped his head over towards the mechanic, his eyes widened.  
  
"What?"  
"What's the matter?"  
"Did you just call me…..a _supersonic_ pilot?"  
"You sound shocked, Hedgehog." Ridley looked amused. "Why are you shocked?"  
"Because I'm not on the pilot payroll with Project Blue Gale."  
"What?" Ridley frowned. "You mean Boyd didn't tell you?"  
"Tell me what?"  
"You're tertiary pilot on Project Blue Gale."  
"_What?!_"  
"I'm surprised you didn't know this whole time, Hedgehog!" Ridley looked at Scott seriously. "But I suppose I should tell you this now, also because of the way things are going with Hoover and Boyd. You weren't just picked because you do good mechanics; you were picked because you are a test pilot. You pick things up, you can figure how to work things real quick, like second nature. Boyd likes those types of guys to work on his projects. And because this project is very dangerous - hell, just firing up Black Betsy can blow the jet up - Boyd went all over the country to find as many qualified test pilots as he could." Ridley paused. "Chuck and Bob, they _are_ the best, even though they're junior pilots in Boyd's section. After all, each of the boys in Boyd's Flight Test Division, from what I remember hearing, have more flight hours than the rest of the USAAF, the RAF, and even the Luftwaffe _combined_. You can't get much more experienced than that, believe you me. They're the best of the best."  
"…..I'm tertiary……"  
  
Scott was flabbergasted as he looked at his bottle, then down at the plans of the XS-1. He was shocked about this; it had come out of nowhere. It was completely new to him.  
  
"But if Boyd's squadron is the best….How did _I_ get into this?"  
"Because of what I said. You're not only a pilot, you're a mechanic. You can spot problems with whatever you're flying. You've got ears, and you work quick to find the best solution to the problem. That's what a pilot is; a lot of the guys in Boyd's division never took much time to hone their intuitions, despite the fact they're good at flying, and they know it. So Boyd went out for pilots who had experience in fixing military grade machinery." Ridley went to drink his Bud, only to find he had none. "Damn. Hang on a moment, Hedgehog, I'll get you another one too."  
  
Scott nodded slowly as Ridley left. He looked down at the desk, staring down at the jet blueprints.  
  
_I'm third in line….._  
  
It seemed impossible to him. In comparison to Chuck Yeager - who, despite being a bit of a showoff, was the best he had ever seen - and Bob Hoover, he was practically nothing. He flew only two missions in Italy - his last being the Salerno campaign. And what had happened to him in Salerno, what he had always thought he had done there, was not all that becoming of any pilot, let alone a captain, in the United States Army Air Force. Why Boyd would have chosen him, especially if he knew what had happened, was beyond Scott's comprehension; he was not necessarily as brave or as resourceful as Chuck.  
  
Yet deep down, he realized _should_ have known. The strange feeling of interest and excitement of the unknown that had come to him throughout this mission returned. However, he forced it back down; he decided not to seem too eager to Ridley.  
  
With a sigh, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt and aired it out; it was a hot night. He wore a white undershirt underneath; unlike many of the men on the field, he did not normally let his shirt out, he was not there to impress anyone. For good reason as well; from under his shirt, there could be seen small, dark splotches on his chest, on his shoulders, on his back, and on several portions of his collarbone.   
  
_Third in line…._ The thought permeated through him again. _It just seems so impossible. I'm not the kind of pilot that does this all the time. I mean, Chuck! All I have to do is look at Chuck; he's a fella cut out for this kind of stuff,. Am I really as good as Ridley says I am?_  
  
The sound of the doorknob turning brought Scott back to reality. Quickly, he buttoned his shirt back up before Ridley could come in and see the scars.   
  
"Whoo!" Ridley came in with two more beers as Scott was buttoning the last seam in. "Its sweltering in here, Hedgehog. We need a bigger room."  
"Heh…..I'll say……"  
  
Scott gave a sigh of relief as Ridley sat down and put the beers on the table. Indeed, to Scott it was too hot of a room. Not that it mattered much; Ridley knew nothing more than he really needed to know anyway.   
  
With that, Scott pushed his real thoughts to the back of his head; there was still work to do and little time to do it.  
  
---------------------------  
  
"Well, Hedgehog, what do you think of that?"  
  
The two men - Ridley and Garnet - both staggered with exhaustion into the hangar. It was two in the afternoon; they had not slept the whole night. Yet both men could feel nothing but relief over the NACA meeting. Their tail buffer had been approved and recommended overwhelmingly by the agents from the NACA, and the project was given the expected timetable of December 1947 for completion.   
  
"Well, I'm off for the rest of today." Scott felt Redson slap him on the back. "Good luck, and I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
Redson, also, was present, even sober, for parts of the meeting - he ended up having to call Bell concerning the buffers. He returned with the announcement that the buffers were expected to come in within the next several days.  
  
"Right, Redson." Scott turned to Ridley. "Lets go check up on Glennis, right?"  
"Right." Ridley opened the door to the hangar. "So, what do you think about the NACA?"  
"Strange men."  
"Well," Ridley nodded as they both entered. "NACA stands for the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics, so that you know. With all the yapping we do, I'm not sure if you knew that."  
"Well, what's the deal with them?"  
"Heh. They are all essentially USAAF officers who are the brains of a lot of the stuff we do disguised as a suggestive panel, so a lot of what we do and how we do it is decided by the…..the….."  
  
Ridley's voice trailed off as he turned on the lights of the hangar. His hand dropped from the light switch, and his eyes squinted.  
  
"Jack?"  
"…..Hedgehog….." Ridley's voice was low. "Its either me or there's a puddle of something under the plane."  
"Huh?"  
  
Scott knelt down to the ground, squinting his eyes to look. Indeed, there was a puddle of light blue, dropping on the ground under the propped up jet.  
  
"Hmm…"  
"The hydrochloric transmission tank. It wasn't leaking at all when the agents were here…." Ridley bent down. "Maybe we should check it out, Hedgehog."  
"…I'll check it out." Scott bent down as well. "It may just be a loose screw or something. Here, get me a screwdriver so I can pop it back in."  
"….Ok."  
  
Ridley took a Phillips head screwdriver out of his pocket and handed it to Scott. Nodding, Scott proceeded to slowly and carefully maneuver himself under the flap of the airplane, the screwdriver in tow. It was not much to fix a simple loose screw under a plane for Scott; such things happened all the time, particularly when the plane was flying.  
  
As he began to look for there the loose screw was, however, he stopped as he spotted the tank, which was just over the engine valve. He could feel the color drain from his face.  
  
"Sweet Jesus...."  
  
All over the transmission tank, large rusty nails were driven straight into the gray metal of the transmission tank's sheathing. Several large drops of the blue transmission fluid were dripping at a steady rate onto the puddle on the ground from each of the holes that the nails had created. Some of the fluid trails looked ready to land inside the engine valve, which indicated that a good amount of time had passed since the nails had been hammered in. What was worse was that, from Scott's best guess and panicked estimate, there were at least fifty nails driven in - all there with the sole purpose of leaking the fluid out.  
  
"@#%$....."  
"Hedgehog, what do you see?"  
"........Jack....."   
  
Scott gave a gulp as he snapped out his gloves. Transmission fluid was the last thing he needed to ingest into his system, but _someone_ had to get the nails out.  
  
"…Get the colonel, Jack" he managed to get out as he started to go under. "And get me a towel and a hammer.......quick....."  
  
-------------  
  
Boyd started to read the papers and notes from the NACA meeting at his desk. His eyes went over each line carefully, looking at the recommendations and critiques written towards Project Blue Gale. There were a few things unrelated to the plane itself - most of it was on security - that the agents frowned upon. However, in light of the fact that it was only an experiment, it was a very hopeful report. He gave a nod.  
  
"Perfect."  
  
The came the frantic knock on his door.  
  
"COLONEL!"   
"…Ridley?"  
"Sir, are you there?!"  
"What's wrong, Captain?" Boyd stood up slowly.  
"Its Glennis, sir! She's been sabotaged!"  
  
Boyd was at the door the instant the word 'sabotage' rang into his ears. His eyes slit as he marched towards the door. Opening it with an affinitive throw, he looked upon Ridley's horrified face with a rigid, almost angered exposure.  
  
"Captain Jack Ridley." Boyd's voice was calm even as his face turned red. "Am I correct in hearing that you said……the XS-1 in the hangar……..was _sabotaged_?"  
"….Sir…." Ridley looked down to the ground. "I do apologize for interrupting you with the news, sir, but it couldn't wait-"  
"What happened?"  
  
Ridley looked up at Boyd's eyes to see that they blazed with a sudden lividness. The colonel's anger was well known to him, as well as to those who had worked at Wright. The colonel very rarely became truly enraged; he had a long fuse from which he could be annoyed. Something in the magnitude of sabotage, however, snipped that fuse very quickly.  
  
"I…"  
"Colonel."  
  
Boyd's angry glare turned from Ridley to the origin of the voice down the hall. A pair of boots walked briskly towards them, and the colonel's eyes widened as the light hit the approaching soldier.  
  
"…Garnet?" As Boyd spoke, Ridley turned to look at Scott. His eyes widened as well. "Good God, son, what the hell happened to you?!"  
  
Scott winced with pain as he looked at the colonel. The towel had saved his face, and his gloves his hands, but his hair and scalp had been completely soaked by the fluid. Even after washing it several times, as quick as he could after getting out from under the plane, his head burned terribly from what got under his skin, and he felt almost woozy from it.   
  
"The plane, sir..."  
"What the hell happened?!"  
"The transmission tank..." Scott slowly spoke; his head felt like it was on fire with every movement he made. "Someone punctured the transmission tank with fifty-three nails, sir. It was dripping quite a bit; at least half of the fluid was gone when I was finally able to check it, sir."  
  
Shakily, he took out a paper bag, wrapped in a towel, from his jacket and showed it to Boyd. The horror and anger on Boyd's face was priceless as he slowly took the soaked bag from the captain, opening in and examining the contents.  
  
"The plane transmission would not have gotten enough fluid to start if we had wanted to fly today…." Scott took a deep breath. "…and some of it was starting to drip onto Glennis' Black Betsy, sir."  
"WHAT?!?!?"  
"If Chuck had gone out there today, the plane wouldn't have worked." Ridley's expression became grim even as his voice shook. "Sir, it definitely sabotage. It must have happened after NACA came into the hangar to check the plane, sir."  
"Sabotage.....!!"  
  
Boyd walked to his desk, his face turning red. He looked at Scott, then at John, then back again.  
  
".....Who did this?!"  
"Sir, we don't know, sir."  
"Well, dammit, find out!!!!" The colonel's hand slamming on the desk caused them both to jump. "It was someone on the team, wasn't it?"  
"...I...." Scott gulped. "I'm afraid so, sir. We think it may have been a mechanic. This project is top secret, after all..."   
"And its going to go successfully!" The colonel fumed. "Who among us would be so @#%$ callous to do this?!? I want everyone questioned, and I mean _everyone_ questioned, Ridley. This will not be tolerated! This may put us back two weeks on Glennis until Bell can get us a new transmission fluid tank for the damn plane! She'll have to stay over somewhere, rusting, and we won't be able to use her for God knows how long until its fixed! Do you know how infuriating this is?" The colonel began to laugh. "Actually, no, strike that. You boys know. You're Air Force men; you know how time frames go. But I'll be _damned_....._DAMNED_ if someone's going to go out of their way to ruin this project!!!!"  
  
With that, the general stormed out of the room. The two men looked at one another.  
  
"Oh God……Hoover."   
"Huh?" Scott's eyes widened at Jack's words.   
"That's who must have done it. Not someone on the mechanical team."  
"B-but..." Scott looked at the door. "He wouldn't do such things."  
"He was angry because of the colonel's decision."  
" Just because we saw him yesterday, and he was angry about what was happening, the colonel couldn't just immediately point to him!" Scott shut his eyes tightly from the pain. "No, Jack, I don't know-"  
"That's the way it works...maybe it was him, maybe it wasn't." Jack sighs. "But you know as well as I do that when he's found to be innocent, it'll be _us_ next."  
"But none of us could have had access to the hangar after NACA left, Jack. We locked the door, and then we all went with the agents to Pancho Barnes, remember?"  
"Yes, but there were several people still missing from the meeting, including Hoover, remember? And for every lock, there's a nailfile to pick it." Jack's eyes slit. "And heaven help the man who's decided to do this to us, Hedgehog. We haven't been working our asses off and risking our lives so that some hotshot can come and make a point, you know?."  
  
With that, Ridley left the room, leaving Scott to tear up in pain from the burning sensation.  
  
_God…..this burns………this crap burns like fire….like flames on my head……_  
  
No matter what he did, as he walked, the pain was searing. He could feel every single cuticle and hole on his head sear with unimaginable pain. Everything was blurring, his vision hazed. He wished battery acid could be rammed down his throat if it could take his mind off of the terrific pain, off the flaming sensation.  
  
_off of the flames…..  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The fog shrouded the Luftwaffe planes as they surrounded to lost dog fighter. The _rattataataaataa_ sound echoed through the foggy night and froze Scott's heart.  
  
"WE'VE BEEN HIT!!!"  
  
The plane rocked violently as the bullets seared through the engine. The explosions below him brightened up the cockpit, and the flames seared under his legs as he shouted into the radio.  
  
"COMMAND! COMMAND! WE-"_

**_*BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM*_**

_  
  
He hadn't seen the German's frightened faces, but the explosion ripped the nose right off of his plane. More flames appeared, as well as the screams of the German pilots as they flew to the ground, falling past him in full view.  
  
God, God, God….  
  
His panic was then interrupted by another popping sound, followed by a scream behind him. He turned around frantically, screaming over the roar of the gas fire.  
  
"MILES!"  
"The radio's dead, Scott!"   
"Eject!"  
"The heat's melted the mechanism!"  
  
The young boy, a year younger than Scott, gasped for air as the intense heat filled his end of the plane. He ripped his helmet off, his strawberry blonde hair being licked by the flames.   
  
"We're going to crash, Scott! We're going to die!"  
"**NO!!!!!**"  
  
Scott gripped the steering stick of the plane as tight as he could. The control was gone, he knew; he grunted, then screamed, when his vain pulls had no effect of bringing the nose up.  
  
"Dammit! Come on!!!!" He screamed in fear. "DON'T DO THIS TO ME!!!!"  
  
_I don't want to die……._  
  
The flames overwhelmed him once more. The roar became louder, the smoke choked him. And the plane was going into a tailspin. His head burned from the flames, from the fluids, from the hell he was in…..  
  
_God no, don't let me die I don't want to die I want to go home  
  
_The mind raced. Time was running out, and the smell came…..the terrible smell of burning flesh….……the strong smell of burning wood……..  
  
wood……._  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Scott's eyes bolted wide open. The smell was no dream.  
  
He gave a scream of pain as he whipped his head towards the window; the transmission fluid oozed through his head still, even after seven hours. The illusions in his head, the memories, they had taken so long, yet for Scott, the events seemed to have happened all too quickly when they had occurred.  
  
But this time, the flames were not just a dream. The smell was no longer just a memory. This time, it was real.  
  
"GET THE WATER!!!"  
  
He heard the scream; it was Redson's voice. He looked out the window, unable to comprehend for a moment what was happening. Then he realized. The hanger where Glennis had been only several hours before was engulfed in flames.  
  
He wasted no time. He jumped out of bed, ignoring the pain he had, ignoring his impulse to simply submit to the pain, allowing the adrenaline to take over his instincts. He threw his clothing on; he didn't bother buttoning up his shirt to hide the marks on his chest. He could care less if he had even zipped his pants up; there was no time to even think. Within a minute he was running as fast as he could to the hangar.  
  
"DAMMIT!" Suddenly, someone threw a bucket at his face. "Get more water! More water!!!!"  
  
Scott turned around, ran back into the barracks he was in, ran out of the back door and leaped into the outhouse. He blasted each of the water taps in the sink to the outmost they could go; within seconds the bucket was full. He ran back through the barracks, and ran as fast as he could to the hangar, which was a mile away. His muscles screamed, his legs groaned, his eyes wanted to close. But he pushed, and with an angry shout he flung the water into the wooden inferno. The water did little to calm it down, and instead the wind whipped ash into his face.   
  
"AAH!!"  
"Need water…"  
"Help him! He's trapped in there!"  
"I got him!!"  
  
Gasping for his breath, Scott turned to see two men - mechanics - carrying out a body from the smoldering ruins. He could only look on in surprised shock as the shaking, burnt body of Capt. Robert Hoover came into closer view to him. It seemed to play out in slow motion within Scott's mind; Hoover breathed slowly as he passed Scott, burns covering his body.   
  
"G-good god…" He could only say to himself with a stammer. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off.  
"Holy shit!" The angered voice of Boyd came into his earshot again. "What the hell?! What the hell is going on?!?"  
"@#%$…" Yeager's voice also came into his ears. "Thank God that none of the jets were in the hangar."  
"What happened?!" Boyd quickly wiped his brow of the thick ash. "What the hell happened to the hangar?!"  
"Someone must have set it on fire, sir!" Ridley glared at the smoldering ruins. "The only person who had access was Hoover, sir."  
"What?"  
"I hate to say it, sir, but Hoover was the only person who had been near the hangar. He did say he was going to check it out from this afternoon's problem with Glamorous Glennis."  
"….Why the hell would Hoover start a fire and then be such a total fool not to get out of the way of it, Captain?"  
  
Scott turned back towards the men carrying Hoover's body. He began to swoon. The pain was coming back. His head swam violently, and the fact that the heat was licking his back did not help matters at all.   
  
"Then why the hell was Hoover there in the hangar?"  
"If it was Hoover, he's going to a court martial even if he ends up in a coffin from his damn injuries!" Scott's eyes rolled up to the back of his head as Boyd spoke. "If it wasn't Hoover, then we-"  
  
He lost it then. His pain came back, and he lost his ability to retain consciousness. He fell to his knees, then fell to the side. The shouts of the men as they ran towards him faded out as the heat and flames in his eyes slowly turned from brilliant infernal colors to an indefinite, dismal black.


	22. Appendix: Original Ch 8 Passage

_ORIGINAL CH. 8 PASSAGE NOTE: Several things were slightly different when I had been writing , before my computer had crashed. Mainly, Mary was not supposed to know of what happened in Termoli, whereas in the final version, Mary knew already. Also, whether or not one wishes to keep Max's death scene in this passage apart of the canonical TSW is the decision of the reader. I consider the manner in which Max died - by friendly fire - to be canonical, though my mind is still out on his final words to Scott. But again, ever man to himself._   
  
_Hm._ Scott closed his eyes. _I guess its better late than never._   
  
"Scott….." Mary turned away. "Look. I know you have a problem dealing with your feelings. And I know you haven't been seeing a doctor, so don't lie and say you have. I know you're mad at me. But I think….I think I should publish this. I think its something I need to do. I mean…." Mary started to walk. "So many men are talking about their time over there now. I see the way I tell it as….a way to explain it, but to kids, like Sherry. I mean, I admit, I still don't understand parts of why this war happened, but…..I think….simplifying it helps. I think the hedgehog helps, because…..he's _you_, Scott. He helps me to put your thoughts in perspective, to see you as…something better than how you think yourself to be." Mary turned back to Scott. "And so I don't care what you say about it, either. I'm going to publish this, and you can beat me until my face turns blue, because it won't change my mind this time."   
"….Mary…."   
  
He took her hand and clenched it tightly. Looking down at her trembling hand, he began to speak again after several moments.   
  
"….I don't think you understand."   
"…Scott…." Mary looked down. "I just told you-"   
"…No, its not that." Scott shook his head. "Its not you….its me."   
"…Scott…." Mary's voice was slightly irritated. "How many times have I told you-"   
"No, Mary. That's not what I have a problem with." Scott shook his head. "I've gone past blaming myself, from blocking out all of what happened."   
"Then why are you still dwelling on it?"   
"…..Because I have to." Scott turned to Mary. "Maybe it's the battle fatigue coming back, but I just have had this….feeling….to think about it. I mean," Scott quickly smiled. "I don't think about it all the time. It's not like before. I just think about it in my sleep, where no one can interrupt my thoughts. I somehow have far better control over it….because I'm _not_ suppressing the memories this time."   
"All the same." Mary shook her head. "You should see a doctor."   
"….No." Scott made a turn onto another road. "The doctor wouldn't believe what I have to say."   
"What you have to say?"   
"Mary…." Scott turned to Mary. His eyes flickered. "What I really want to know……is whether _you_ would believe me if I told you the truth about what happened in Termoli."   
  
Slowly, at this, Scott looked up at the sky. Sometimes, at night, before he went to sleep, his conscience would nag at him about his feelings, and he could almost hear the voices in his mind arguing, particularly after he argued with Mary when he had first come back from the war. This time, however, there was no nagging. He knew it was time to tell.   
  
"It feels like yesterday, Mary…..I was flying over Salerno with my co-pilot, RAF Miles Prowler. We were shot down." Scott closed his eyes. "He died……in my arms….."   
  
Slowly, but surely, his mind drifted back, back to those terrible moments he had always tried to get rid of. He had always tried to push it to the back of his mind, knowing - or at least thinking he had known - it had been his fault all along the two men who had helped him had died a cruel, slow death.   
  
_"MILES!!!"   
  
Scott could barely see through the smoke and flames of the fire as he fell over his friend. Quickly, he sat him up.   
  
"Miles!! Miles, are you all right?!?!?"   
"……Scott……"   
  
Miles' head bobbed towards Scott, and the boy could see the burns on his partner's face. He breathed slowly as blood flowed from his head, and from his eye sockets, the right one with an eye missing.   
  
"I'll be fine….." The smile on Miles' face reciprocated that of Scott's expression of horror at the disgusting. "Just don't…..let them take me…….I'll…..I'll be fine………"_   
  
Yet when the smell of blood came to Scott's nose after four years, he realized it was not so easy to forget. He became scared again when he felt Miles' frame shudder and fall silent, scared of what he would remember; two years could not have lessened the blow anymore than a hundred women could have, if he had not been with Mary.   
  
"He died of his wounds. I managed to bury his body, before the Germans caught me." Scott took a deep breath. "They took me to Termoli."   
"Scott, please…"   
"Let me continue."   
  
There was no anger in Scott's voice, as there had been the last time, those many months before, when Mary had been foolish enough to first demand of him what he tossed and turned in bed for.   
  
"I was captured by the Germans," his voice was soft, sad. "They tried to get information from me, anything they could get. I had nothing they didn't already know, but they still tortured me, hoping to get more. They did everything to me…..everything short of killing me…"   
"Scott…" Mary shut her eyes.   
"They locked me in a small cell." Scott's voice was distant. "It was two feet wide on all sides. They give me no food; they figured to starve me. But….but Max….."   
  
Scott paused. To continue, to continue would bring everything back. But he was too far to go back. The sun was starting to sink below the horizon.   
  
"Max…was a German officer my age." He slowly closed his eyes. "He….saved me. He hated his people. He told me of these rumors he heard, that they shipped people off to camps to die. I didn't believe it. But he did. That's why, he said, that's why he joined the resistance behind his country's back. He'd give reconnaissance information to the Americans. And then…..he was almost caught."   
  
A small tear came down Scott's eyes as he spoke. His voice shook slightly as he spoke.   
  
"But I saved him that one time. I managed to convince the Germans, that _I_ had been sending the messages. So I was punished. Tortured again….but still, not killed." He involuntarily touched his shoulder. "They poked me good with that machine, whatever it was. I think it was a cattle prod, with a battery in it. They stuck me naked in a bucket of water, and slashed it all over my body. I couldn't scream; I was gagged."   
"…..Oh, god…" Mary turned away. "Please, don't tell me anymore."   
"I survived." Scott knew better than to stop. "It was the beginning of October when they did that; I was still burnt up when……when the Americans attacked."   
  
He opened his eyes to return to the present, and almost gave a start. He was wide awake; he had opened his eyes. Yet he wasn't in front of the club. All around him was blood, and the sound of thunder. _Mortar shells._   
  
Then he turned. He shut his eyes.   
  
"They came at night…..They came, and destroyed the town…..and….Max…."   
  
_"MAX!!!!!!!"   
  
He screamed without logic, without control, as the pain of the bullets in his side came back over his adrenaline rush. The pain, the bullets, the sounds, the smells, the sight of the ruined houses around him, the people screaming around him, in languages his tongue had not heard in three years.....   
  
He couldn't stop himself now; he knew what year it was, what day it was. It was September 29, 1947. He was in California. Yet he had also somehow traveled back, back into time, his mind unable to awaken, yet fully awake and aware. He choked on himself.   
  
He was back in Termoli, re-living the day he should have died._   
  
"I tried to stop them, to tell them he was in the resistance…..but…."   
  
_"Hurphf!"   
  
The blood splattered everywhere from his red-haired friend as he lurched up. One of the sniper bullets had hit the German square in the chest; the other his him in the jugular. His eyes were wide with terror as he fell to his knees, the blood spurting and pulsing out of his injuries.   
  
"**NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!**"   
  
With no control from the present, he ran, clutching his side, screaming, as the German fell to his knees. He could feel the bullets whizzing all around him, and could see the buildings collapsing around him. But his concern was Max.   
  
"MAX!!!!"   
  
He slid on his knees as he got to his friend, catching him before his head could hit the ground. Max's eyes were wide from the pain, his face was white as a sheet; he looked up towards the sky that peeked through the broken ceiling.   
  
"...S.....scott....."   
"M-max!" Scott squeaked. The feeling of helplessness came back to him, and he was reduced to a child as he burst into tears. "Noo.....please, don't die!"   
  
As Scott fretted, his mind snapped suddenly. Behind him, another door exploded, and the splinters shattered over him._   
  
"Whenever I played the scene…in my mind…." More tears came down. "I had always blamed myself. But….lately…….Something…..resurfaced. Something I completely blocked out."   
  
_"Miles.....the mortar....." Scott shut his eyes, forcing the tears back. "Max, I....I have...I have to save you! I'll go get a doctor!"   
"...No......"   
  
Scott's eyes widened. He saw Max's facial expression change. Where there had been terror before, there was a strange calm and tranquility in his eyes, which overtook the ash hue of his face. He kept staring up at the starry night sky over the destroyed building, his blood flowing out of him and onto Scott and the floor. Yet there was a strange satisfaction in his eyes._   
  
"My dreams…..I saw the truth. I was stunned. I did not remember seeing Max looking so tranquil as he died....I had only remembered the terror and the fear in his eyes....."   
  
_"....He's.....vaiting..." Max gasped.   
"Max?" Scott saw the terror in his own eyes as he grabbed Max's hand tightly. "Max, no..."   
"Mein....friend...." Max closed his eyes. "Vas dis....a beginning.....of.....it is up there........the next.....stage....."   
  
Scott stared down at his friend, unable to understand. He was too gripped in fear, too frightened, to truly understand what his friend meant. Death was an _end_.   
  
"Max?" Scott could only look at him in confusion even as fear gripped him. "What....do you mean.....beginning?"   
"Leave me."   
  
The next thing that happened made Scott's blood go cold in shock as he looked to Max's face as he began to limp, as the dark red blood began to course from Max's mouth, as the dust of death's much-traveled dirt road began to cloud his eyes.   
  
He turned to Scott and _smiled.   
  
He smiled brightly, as if he had seen something so wonderful that not even his impending end could contain the strange joy that had seeped into his soul.   
  
Scott could only look down, horrified with realization, at this smile. And it was then he knew what Max had really_ wanted that night.   
  
"Ve'll....meet...........there.........sonic..........wind.................hedge.........."   
  
There was still no struggle in Max as he went limp in Scott's arms, as the last of his blood and strength gave out. He still smiled, even though his muscles relaxed into a lifeless dormancy. Scott froze, his lip quivering. _   
  
"I had forgotten that smile, or had taken it differently, or perhaps had not even realized it had been there. I'm not sure…..but….."   
  
_And as Scott wept violently over his dead friend's body, returning to the moments that had been remembered, he had begun realized why. What kind of happiness could Max have seen in him, in the fact he would never live to marry, or to have children, or to grow old? Would he have lived that long afterwards? He closed his eyes again, wondering, knowing now he had not abandoned Max as he had fooled himself into thinking. Max had, in truth, told him to live, and to let him die. But _why?   
  
_......Wait.............Max..._. Then the meaning of the memories had hit him, as oblivious to it as he was. _You said.....sonic wind.......!!_   
  
Scott took a deep breath. And just as suddenly, he was back. The coolness of the desert night hit him, and he was back where he had started.   
  
He looked down at himself. There was nothing on him to commemorate what had just happened; no wounds, no Max...no blood. No blood, not even on his hands, as he looked.   
  
_.........Mary...._   
  
He turned to face Mary. Her face was completely pale; pale, and confused. Scott knew she wouldn't understand. Not yet.   
  
"Mary…."   
"….Why….." Mary looked guilty, her face turned down towards the floor. "….Why did you tell me this?"   
"…….Because." Scott turned her face up towards him. "….My work……and, when I tell you, Mary, please, you must promise me…..never say a word……..my current work….is dedicated to solving a problem concerning wind resistance. It-"   
"The sonic wind?"   
"…Yes." A look of surprise came on Mary's face. "You know, Mary, you're….the only person I've told this to. Because…..somehow, I feel like…..I'm supposed to be here. Now, I understand that I have to be here, right now, working on this. Of course, most people would think of that as crazy talk, especially the fellas where I work." A cold wind began to blow; Scott took Mary into his arms. "That…..what Max said……I may never understand what he saw…..maybe he saw my future." Scott gave a huff, one of slight disgruntlement. "I must admit, I always felt myself to be the last to know anything; all the time, even here at my job in California, everyone seems to know something more than I do. Maybe that's why I blocked it out, why I could never face it, why I blamed myself for what happened…because I was disturbed by that realization. Yet, I guess I have little choice in that anymore. Everything's a surprise, but I'll just have to take it in stride, as best as I can."   
"…I…." Mary paused. "I….thank you for your trust, Hedgehog." 


End file.
